V    K  o  *"«*  y 

M 


'    l-Uv-    , 

0 


u 


al    $C2.**   -  "^f  ;' 

:U  ^^> 


The  Complete  TVorks  of  Frank  Norris 


McTeague  and 
A  Man's  Woman 


STORIES  OF 

SAN  FRANCISCO 
BY 

Frank  Norris 


TORK   P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON    PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,     1899,     BY 
DOUBLEDAY    &    MC  CLURE    CO. 


Add'l 

^l  ,  f  , 
GIFT 


DEDICATED    TO 

L.    E.    GATES 

OF   HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


M823776 

A— III— NORMS 


McTEAGUE 


IT  was  Sunday,  and,  according  to  his  custom  on  that  day,  Mc- 
Teague  took  his  dinner  at  two  in  the  afternoon  at  the  car  conduc 
tors'  coffee-joint  on  Polk  Street.  He  had  a  thick  gray  soup ;  heavy, 
underdone  meat,  very  hot,  on  a  cold  plate ;  two  kinds  of  vegetables ; 
and  a  sort  of  suet  pudding,  full  of  strong  butter  and  sugar.  On 
his  way  back  to  his  office,  one  block  above,  he  stopped  at  Joe 
Frenna's  saloon  and  Dcught  a  pitcher  of  steam  beer.  It  was  his 
habit  to  leave  the  pitcher  there  on  his  way  to  dinner. 

Once  in  his  office,  or,  as  he  called  it  on  his  sign-board,  "Dental 
Parlors,"  he  took  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  unbuttoned  his  vest,  and, 
having  crammed  his  little  stove  full  of  coke,  lay  back  in  his  operat 
ing  chair  at  the  bay  window,  reading  the  paper,  drinking  his  beer, 
and  smoking  his  huge  porcelain  pipe  while  his  food  digested;  crop- 
full,  stupid,  and  warm.  By  and  by,  gorged  with  steam  beer,  and 
overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  room,  the  cheap  tobacco,  and  the 
effects  of  his  heavy  meal,  he  dropped  off  to  sleep.  Late  in  the  after 
noon  his  canary  bird,  in  its  gilt  cage  just  over  his  head,  began  to 
sing.  He  woke  slowly,  finished  the  rest  of  his  beer — very  flat  and 
stale  by  this  time — and  taking  down  his  concertina  from  the  book 
case,  where  in  week  days  it  kept  the  company  of  seven  volumes  of 
"Allen's  Practical  Dentist,"  played  upon  it  some  half-dozen  very 
mournful  airs. 

McTeague  looked  forward  to  these  Sunday  afternoons  as  a 
period  of  relaxation  and  enjoyment.  He  invariably  spent  them  in 
the  same  fashion.  These  were  his  only  pleasures — to  eat,  to  smoke, 
to  sleep,  and  to  play  upon  his  concertina. 

The  six  lugubrious  airs  that  he  knew  always  carried  him  back 
to  the  time  when  he  was  a  car-boy  at  the  Big  Dipper  Mine  in 
Placer  County,  ten  years  before.  He  remembered  the  years  he 
had  spent  there  trundling  the  heavy  cars  of  ore  in  and  out  of  the 
tunnel  under  the  direction  of  his  father.  For  thirteen  days  of  each 

(3) 


4  McTeague 

fortnight  his  father  was  a  steady,  hard-working  shift-boss  of  the 
mine.  Every  other  Sunday  he  became  an  irresponsible  animal,  a 
beast,  a  brute,  crazy  with  alcohol. 

McTeague  remembered  his  mother,  too,  who,  with  the  help  of  the 
Chinaman,  cooked  for  forty  miners.  She  was  an  overworked  drudge, 
fiery  and  energetic  for  all  that,  filled  with  the  one  idea  of  having  her 
son  rise  in  life  and  enter  a  profession.  The  chance  had  come  at  last 
when  the  father  died,  corroded  with  alcohol,  collapsing  fn  a  few 
hours.  Two  or  three  years  later  a  traveling  dentist  visited  the 
mine  and  put  up  his  tent  near  the  bunk-house.  He  was  more  or 
less  of  a  charlatan,  but  he  fired  Mrs.  McTeague's  ambition,  and 
young  McTeague  went  away  with  him  to  learn  his  profession.  He 
had  learned  it  after  a  fashion,  mostly  by  watching  the  charlatan  oper 
ate.  He  had-re&d  many  of  the  necessary  books,  but  he  was  too 
hopelessly  stupid  to  get  much  benefit  from  them. 

Then  one  day  at  San  Francisco  had  come  the  news  of  his 
mother's  death;  she  had  left  him  some  money — not  much,  but 
enough  to  set  him  up  in  business;  so  he  had  cut  loose  from  the 
charlatan  and  had  opened  his  "Dental  Parlors"  on  Polk  Street,  an 
"accommodation  street"  of  small  shops  in  the  residence  quarter  of 
the  town.  Here  he  had  slowly  collected  a  clientele  of  butcher  boys, 
shop  girls,  drug  clerks,  and  car  conductors.  He  made  but  few 
acquaintances.  Polk  Street  called  him  the  "Doctor"  and  spoke  of 
his  enormous  strength.  For  McTeague  was  a  young  giant,  carry 
ing  his  huge  shock  of  blond  hair  six  feet  three  inches  from  the 
ground;  moving  his  immense  limbs,  heavy  with  ropes  of  muscle, 
slowly,  ponderously.  His  hands  were  enormous,  red,  and  covered 
with  a  fell  of  stiff  yellow  hair;  they  were  hard  as  wooden  mallets, 
strong  as  vises,  the  hands  of  the  old-time  car-boy.  Often  he  dis 
pensed  with  forceps  and  extracted  a  refractory  tooth  with  his  thumb 
and  finger.  His  head  was  square-cut,  angular;  the  jaw  salient,  like 
that  of  the  carnivora. 

McTeague's  mind  was  as  his  body,  heavy,  slow  to  act,  sluggish. 
yet  there  was  nothing  vicious  about  the  man.  Altogether  he  su^- 
gested  the  (draught  horse,  immensely  strong,  stupid,  docile,  obedient. 

When  he  opened  his  "Dental  Parlors,"  he  felt  that  his  life  was  a 
success,  that  he  could  hope  for  nothing  better.  In  spite  of  the 
name,  there  was  but  one  room.  .It  was  a  corner  room  on  the  second 
floor  over  the  branch  post-office,  and  faced  the  street.  McTeague 
made  it  do  for  a  bedroom  as  well,  sleeping  on  the  big  bed-lounge 
against  the  wall  opposite  the  window.  There  was  a  washstand 


McTeague  j 

behind  the  screen  in  the  corner  where  he  manufactured  his  molds. 
In  the  round  bay  window  were  his  operating  chair,  his  dental  engine, 
and  the  movable  rack  on  which  he  laid  out  his  instruments.  Three 
chairs,  a  bargain  at  the  second-hand  store,  ranged  themselves  against 
the  wall  with  military  precision  underneath  a  steel  engraving  of  the 
court  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  which  he  had  bought  because  there 
were  a  great  many  figures  in  it  for  the  money.  Over  the  bed- 
lounge  hung  a  rifle  manufacturer's  advertisement  calendar  which 
he  never  used.  The  other  ornaments  were  a  small  marble-topped 
centre  table  covered  with  back  numbers  of  "The  American  Sys 
tem  of  Dentistry,"  a  stone  pug  dog  sitting  before  the  little  stove, 
and  a  thermometer.  A  stand  of  shelves  occupied  one  corner,  filled 
with  the  seven  volumes  of  "Allen's  Practical  Dentist."  On  the  top 
shelf  McTeague  kept  his  concertina  and  a  bag  of  bird  seed  for  the 
canary.  The  whole  place  exhaled  a  mingled  odor  of  bedding,  o*eo- 
sote,  and  ether. 

But  for  one  thing  McTeague  would  have  been  perfectly  con-  s 
tented.  Just  outside  his  window  was  his  sign-board — a  modest 
affair — that  read:  "Doctor  McTeague.  Dental  Parlors.  Gas 
Given";  but  that  was  all.  It  was  his  ambition, Jhis__dream,  to  have 
projecting  from  that  corner  window  a  huge  gilded  tooth,  a  molar 
with  enormous  prongs,  something  gorgeous  and  attractive.  He 
would  have  it  some  day,  on  that  he  was  resolved;  but  as  yet  such 
a  thing  was  far  beyond  his  means. 

When  he  had  finished  the  last  of  his  beer,  McTeague  slowly 
wipedLhis  lips  and  huge  yellow  mustache  with  the  side  of  his  hand. 
Bull-Hke)  he  heaved  himself  laboriously  up,  and,  going  to  the  window, 
"Stood  looking  down  into  the  street. 

The  street  never  failed  to  interest  him.  It  was  one  of  those 
cross  streets  peculiar  to  Western  cities,  situated  in  the  heart  of  the 
residence  quarter,  but  occupied  by  small  tradespeople  who  lived  in 
the  rooms  above  their  shops.  There  were  corner  drug  stores  with 
huge  jars  of  red,  yellow,  and  green  liquids  in  their  windows,  very 
brave  and  gay;  stationers'  stores,  where  illustrated  weeklies  were 
tacked  upon  bulletin  boards ;  barber  shops  with  cigar  stands  in  their 
vestibules ;  sad-looking  plumbers'  offices ;  cheap  restaurants,  in  whose 
windows  one  saw  piles  of  unopened  oysters  weighted  down  by  cubes 
of  ice,  and  china  pigs  and  cows  knee  deep  in  layers  of  white  beans. 
At  one..end  of  the _street  McTeague'  could  see  the  huge  power-house 
of  th<e  cable  line.  Immediately  opposite  him  was  a  great  market; 
while  further  on,  over  the  chimney  stacks  of  the  intervening  houses, 


6  McTeague 

the  glass  roof  of  some  huge  public  baths  glittered  like  crystal  in 
the  afternoon  sun.  Underneath  him  the  branch  post-office  was  open 
ing-  its  doors,  as  was  its  custom  between  two  and  three  o'clock  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  An  acrid  odor  of  ink  rose  upward  to  him. 
Occasionally  a  cable  car  passed,  trundling  heavily,  with  a  strident 
whirring  of  jostled  glass  windows. 

On  week  days  the  street  was  very  lively.  It  woke  to  its  work 
about  seven  o'clock,  at  the  time  when  the  newsboys  made  their  ap 
pearance  together  with  the  day  laborers.  The  laborers  went  trudg 
ing  past  in  a  straggling  file — plumbers'  apprentices,  their  pockets 
stuffed  with  sections  of  lead  pipe,  tweezers,  and  pliers;  carpenters, 
carrying  nothing  but  their  little  pasteboard  lunch  baskets,  painted 
to  imitate  leather;  gangs  of  street  workers,  their  overalls  soiled 
with  yellow  clay,  their  picks  and  long-handled  shovels  over  their 
shoulders;  plasterers,  spotted  with  lime  from  head  to  foot.  This 
little  army  of  workers,  tramping  steadily  in  one  direction,  met  and 
mingled  with  other  toilers  of  a  different  description — conductors 
and  "swing  men"  of  the  cable  company  going  on  duty;  heavy-eyed 
night  clerks  from  the  drug  stores  on  their  way  home  to  sleep; 
roundsmen  returning  to  the  precinct  police  station  to  make  their 
ni^ht  report,  and  Chinese  market  gardeners  teetering  past  under 
their  heavy  baskets.  The  cable  cars  began  to  fill  up;  all  along  the 
street  could  be  seen  the  shopkeepers  taking  down  their  shutters. 

Between  seven  and  eight  the  street  breakfasted.  Now  and  then 
a  waiter  from  one  of  the  cheap  restaurants  crossed  from  one  side 
walk  to  the  other,  balancing  on  one  palm  a  tray  covered  with  a 
napkin.  Everywhere  was  the  smell  of  coffee  and  of  frying  steaks. 
A  little  later,  following  in  the  path  of  the  day  laborers,  came  the 
clerks  and  shop  girls,  dressed  with  a  certain  cheap  smartness,  always 
in  a  hurry,  glancing  apprehensively  at  the  power-house  clock.  Their 
employers  followed  an  hour  or  so  later — on  the  cable  cars  for  the 
most  part — whiskered  gentlemen  with  huge  stomachs,  reading  the 
morning  papers  with  great  gravity;  bank  cashiers  and  insurance 
clerks  with  flowers  in  their  buttonholes. 

At  the  same  time  the  school-children  invaded  the  street,  filling 
the  air  with  a  clamor  of  shrill  voices,  stopping  at  the  stationers' 
shops,  or  idling  a  moment  in  the  doorways  of  the  candy  stores.  For 
over  half  an  hour  they  held  possession  of  the  sidewalks,  then  sud 
denly  disappeared,  leaving  behind  one  or  two  stragglers  who  hur 
ried  along  with  great  strides  of  their  little  thin  legs,  very  anxious 
and  preoccupied. 


McTeague  7 

Toward  eleven  o'clock  the  ladies  from  the  great  avenue  a  block 
above  Polk  Street  made  their  appearance,  promenading  the  side 
walks  leisurely,  deliberately.  They  were  at  their  morning's  market 
ing.  They  were  handsome  women,  beautifully  dressed.  They  knew 
by  name  their  butchers  and  grocers  and  vegetable  men.  From  his 
window  McTeague  saw  them  in  front  of  the  stalls,  gloved  and 
veiled  and  daintily  shod,  the  subservient  provision  men  at  their 
elbows,  scribbling  hastily  in  the  order  books.  They  all  seemed  to 
know  one  another,  these  grand  ladies  from  the  fashionable  avenue. 
Meetings  took  place  here  and  there;  a  conversation  was  begun; 
others  arrived;  groups  were  formed;  little  impromptu  receptions 
were  held  before  the  chopping  blocks  of  butchers'  stalls,  or  on  the 
sidewalk,  around  boxes  of  berries  and  fruit. 

From  noon  to  evening  the  population  of  the  street  was  of  a 
mixed  character.  The  street  was  busiest  at  that  time;  a  vast  and 
prolonged  murmur  arose — the  mingled  shuffling  of  feet,  the  rattle  of 
wheels,  the  heavy  trundling  of  cable  cars.  At  four  o'clock  the 
school-children  once  more  swarmed  the  sidewalks,  again  disappear 
ing  with  surprising  suddenness.  At  six  the  great  homeward  march 
commenced ;  the  cars  were  crowded,  the  laborers  thronged  the  side 
walks,  the  newsboys  chanted  the  evening  papers.  Then  all  at  once 
the  street  fell  quiet ;  hardly  a  soul  was  in  sight ;  the  sidewalks  were 
deserted.  It  was  supper  hour.  Evening  began ;  and  one  by  one  a 
multitude  of  lights,  from  the  demoniac  glare  of  the  druggists'  win 
dows  to  the  dazzling  blue  whiteness  of  the  electric  globes,  grew  thick 
from  street  corner  to  street  corner.  Once  more  the  street  was 
crowded.  Now  there  was  no  thought  but  for  amusement.  The 
cable  cars  were  loaded  with  theatre-goers — men  in  high  hats  and 
young  girls  in  furred  opera  cloaks.  On  the  sidewalks  were  groups 
and  couples — the  plumbers'  apprentices,  the  girls  of  the  ribbon 
counters,  the  little  families  that  lived  on  the  second  stories  over 
their  shops,  the  dressmakers,  the  small  doctors,  the  harness-makers 
— all  the  various  inhabitants  of  the  street  were  abroad,  strolling  idly 
from  shop  window  to  shop  window,  taking  the  air  after  the  day's 
work.  Groups  of  girls  collected  on  the  corners,  talking  and  laugh 
ing  very  loud,  making  remarks  upon  the  young  men  that  passed 
them.  The  tamale  men  appeared.  A  band  of  Salvationists  began 
to  sing  before  a  saloon. 

Then,  little  by  little,  Polk  Street  dropped  back  to  solitude. 
Eleven  o'clock  struck  from  the  power-house  clock.  Lights  were 
extinguished.  At  one  o'clock  the  cable  stopped,  leaving  an  abrupt 


3  McTeague 

silence  in  the  air.  All  at  once  it  seemed  very  still.  The  only 
noises  were  the  occasional  footfalls  of  a  policeman  and  the  per 
sistent  calling  of  ducks  and  geese  in  the  closed  market.  The  street 
was  asleep. 

Day  after  day,  McTeague  saw  the  same  panorama  unroll  itself. 
The  bay  wndow  of  his  "Dental  Parlors"  was  for  him  a  point  of 
vantage  from  which  he  watched  the  world  go  past. 

On  Sundays,  however,  all  was  changed.  As  he  stood  in  the 
bay  window,  after  finishing  his  beer,  wiping  his  lips,  and  looking  out 
into  the  street,  McTeague  was  conscious  of  the  difference.  Nearly 
all  the  stores  were  closed.  No  wagons  passed.  A  few  people  hur 
ried  up  and  down  the  sidewalks,  dressed  in  cheap  Sunday  finery. 
A  cable  car  went  by ;  on  the  outside  seats  were  a  party  of  returning 
picnickers.  The  mother,  the  father,  a  young  man,  and  a  young  girl, 
and  three  children.  The  two  older  people  held  empty  lunch  baskets 
in  their  laps,  while  the  bands  of  the  children's  hats  were  stuck  full 
of  oak  leaves.  The  girl  carried  a  huge  bunch  of  wilting  poppies  and 
wild  flowers. 

As  the  car  approached  McTeague's  window  the  young  man  got 
up  and  swung  himself  off  the  platform,  waving  good-by  to  the  party. 
Suddenly  McTeague  recognized  him. 

"There's  Marcus  Schouler,"  he  muttered  behind  his  mustache. 

Marcus  Schouler  was  the  dentist's  one  intimate  friend.  The  ac 
quaintance  had  begun  at  the  car  conductors'  coffee-joint,  where  the 
two  occupied  the  same  table  and  met  at  every  meal.  Then  they 
made  the  discovery  that  they  both  lived  in  the  same  flat,  Marcus 
occupying  a  room  on  the  floor  above  McTeague.  On  different 
occasions  McTeague  had  treated  Marcus  for  an  ulcerated  tooth  and 
had  refused  to  accept  payment.  Soon  it  came  to  be  an  understood 
thing  between  them.  They  were  "pals." 

McTeague,  listening,  heard  Marcus  go  upstairs  to  his  room 
above.  In  a  few  minutes  his  door  opened  again.  McTeague  knew 
that  he  had  come  out  into  the  hall  and  was  leaning  over  the  banisters. 

"Oh,  Mac !"  he  called.    McTeague  came  to  his  door. 

"Hullo!   's  that  you,   Mark?" 

"Sure,"  answered  Marcus.    "Come  on  up." 

"You  come  on  down." 

"No,  come  on  up." 

"Oh,  you  come  on  down." 

"Oh,  you  lazy  duck !"  retorted  Marcus,  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"Been  out  to  the  Cliff  House  on  a  picnic,"  he  explained  as  he 


McTeague  9 

sat  down  on  the  bed-lounge,  "with  my  uncle  and  his  people — the 
Sieppes,  you  know.  By  damn !  it  was  hot,"  he  suddenly  vociferated. 
"Just  look  at  that!  Just  look  at  that!"  he  cried,  dragging  at  his 
limp  collar.  "That's  the  third  one  since  morning ;  it  is — it  is,  for  a 
fact — and  you  got  your  stove  going."  He  began  to  tell  about  the 
picnic,  talking  very  loud  and  fast,  gesturing  furiously,  very  excited 
over  trivial  details.  Marcus  could  not  talk  without  getting  excited. 

"You  ought  t'have  seen,  y'ought  t'have  seen.  I  tell  you,  it  was 
outa  sight.  It  was ;  it  was,  for  a  fact." 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  McTeague,  bewildered,  trying  to  follow. 
"Yes,  that's  so." 

In  recounting  a  certain  dispute  with  an  awkward  bicyclist,  in 
which  it  appeared  he  had  become  involved,  Marcus  quivered  with 
rage.  "  'Say  that  again/  says  I  to  um.  'Just  say  that  once  more, 
and' '  —here  a  rolling  explosion  of  oaths — "  'you'll  go  back  to  the 
city  in  the  Morgue  wagon.  Ain't  I  got  a  right  to  cross  a  street 
even,  I'd  like  to  know,  without  being  run  down — what?'  I  say  it's 
outrageous.  I'd  a  knifed  him  in  another  minute.  It  was  an  outrage. 
I  says  it  was  an  outrage." 

"Sure  it  was,"  McTeague  hastened  to  reply.    "Sure,  sure." 

"Oh,  and  we  had  an  accident,"  shouted  the  other,  suddenly  off 
on  another  tack.  "It  was  awful.  Trina  was  in  the  swing  there — 
that's  my  cousin  Trina,  you  know  who  I  mean — and  she  fell  out. 
By  damn !  I  thought  she'd  killed  herself ;  struck  her  face  on  a  rock 
and  knocked  out  a  front  tooth.  It's  a  wonder  she  didn't  kill  her 
self.  It  is  a  wonder;  it  is,  for  a  fact.  Ain't  it  now?  Huh?  Ain't 
it  ?  Y'ought  t'have  seen." 

McTeague  hacj  a  vague  idea  that  Marcus  Schouler  was  stuck  on 
his  cousin  Trina.  They  "kept  company"  a  good  deal;  Marcus 
took  dinner  with  the  Sieppes  every  Saturday  evening  at  their  home 
at  B  Street  station,  across  the  bay,  and  Sunday  afternoons  he  and 
the  family  usually  made  little  excursions  into  the  suburbs.  Mc 
Teague  began  to  wonder  dimly  how  it  was  that  on  this  occasion 
Marcus  had  not  gone  home  with  his  cousin.  As  sometimes  happens, 
Marcus  furnished  the  explanation  upon  the  instant. 

"I  promised  a  duck  up  here  on  the  avenue  I'd  call  for  his  dog 
at  four  this  afternoon." 

Marcus  was  Old  Grannis's  assistant  in  a  little  dog  hospital  that 
the  latter  had  opened  in  a  sort  of  alley  just  off  Polk  Street,  some 
four  blocks  above.  Old  Grannis  lived  in  one  of  the  back  rooms 
of  McTeague's  flat.  He  was  an  Englishman  and  an  expert  dog 


io  McTeague 

surgeon,  but  Marcus  Schouler  was  a  Bungler  in  the  profession. 
His  father  had  been  a  veterinary  surgeon  who  had  kept  a  livery 
stable  near  by,  on  California  Street,  and  Marcus's  knowledge  of  the 
diseases  of  domestic  animals  had  been  picked  up  in  a  haphazard 
way,  much  after  the  manner  of  McTeague's  education.  Somehow 
he  managed  to  impress  Old  Grannis,  a  gentle,  simple-minded  old 
man,  with  a  sense  of  his  fitness,  bewildering  him  with  a  torrent  of 
empty  phrases  that  he  delivered  with  fierce  gestures  and  with  a 
manner  of  the  greatest  conviction. 

"You'd  better  come  along  with  me,  Mac,"  observed  Marcus. 
"We'll  get  the  duck's  dog,  and  then  we'll  take  a  little  walk,  huh? 
You  got  nothun  to  do.  Come  along." 

McTeague  went  out  with  him,  and  the  two  friends  proceeded 
up  the  avenue  to  the  house  where  the  dog  was  to  be  found.  It 
was  a  huge  mansion-like  place,  set  in  an  enormous  garden  that  oc 
cupied  a  whole  third  of  the  block ;  and  while  Marcus  tramped  up  the 
front  steps  and  rang  the  doorbell  boldly,  to  show  his  independence, 
McTeague  remained  below  on  the  sidewalk,  gazing  stupidly  at  the 
curtained  windows,  the  marble  steps,  and  the  bronze  griffins,  trou 
bled  and  a  little  confused  by  all  this  massive  luxury. 

After  they  had  taken  the  dog  to  the  hospital  and  had  left  him 
to  whimper  behind  the  wire  netting,  they  returned  to  Polk  Street 
and  had  a  glass  of  beer  in  the  back  room  of  Joe  Frenna's  corner 
grocery. 

Ever  since  they  had  left  the  huge  mansion  on  the  avenue,  Mar 
cus  had  been  attacking  the  capitalists,  a  class  which  he  pretended  to 
execrate.  It  was  a  pose  which  He  often  assumed,  certain  of  im 
pressing  the  dentist.  Marcus  had  picked  up  a  few  half-truths  of 
political  economy — it  was  impossible  to  say  where — and  as  soon  as 
the  two  had  settled  themselves  to  their  beer  in  Frenna's  back  room 
he  took  up  the  theme  of  the  labor  question.  He  discussed  it  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  vociferating,  shaking  his  fists,  exciting  himself  with 
his  own  noise.  He  was  continually  making  use  of  the  stock  phrases 
of  the  professional  politician — phrases  he  had  caught  at  some  of  the 
ward  "rallies"  and  "ratification  meetings."  These  rolled  off  his 
tongue  with  incredible  emphasis,  appearing  at  every  turn  of  his 
conversation — "Outraged  constituencies,"  "cause  of  labor,"  "wage- 
earners,"  "opinions  biased  by  personal  interests,"  "eyes  blinded  by 
party  prejudice."  McTeague  listened  to  him,  awe-struck. 

"There's  where  the  evil  lies,"  Marcus  would  cry.  "The  masses 
must  learn  self-control;  it  stands  to  reason.  Look  at  the  figures, 


McTeague  1 1 

look  at  the  figures.  Decrease  the  number  of  wage-earners  and  you 
increase  wages,  don't  you?  don't  you?" 

Absolutely  stupid,  and  understanding  never  a  word,  McTeague 
would  answer: 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  it— self-control— that's  the  word." 

"It's  the  capitalists  that's  ruining  the  cause  of  labor,"  shouted 
Marcus,  banging  the  table  with  his  fist  till  the  beer  glasses  danced ; 
"white-livered  drones,  traitors,  with  their  livers  white  as  snow,  eatun 
the  bread  of  widows  and  orphuns ;  there's  where  the  evil  lies." 

Stupefied  with  his  clamor,  McTeague  answered,  wagging  his 
head  : 

"Yes,  that's  it;  I  think  it's  their  livers." 

Suddenly  Marcus  fell  calm  again,  forgetting  his  pose  all  in  an 
instant. 

"Say,  Mac,  I  told  my  cousin  Trina  to  come  round  and  see  you 
about  that  tooth  of  hers.  She'll  be  in  to-morrow,  I  guess." 


II 

AFTER  his  breakfast  the  following  Monday  morning,  McTeague 
looked  over  the  appointments  he  had  written  down  in  the  book- 
slate  that  hung  against  the  screen.  His  writing  was  immense,  very 
clumsy,  and  very  round,  with  huge,  full-bellied  1's  and  h's.  He  sawv 
that  he  had  made  an  appointment  at  one  o'clock  for  Miss  Baker,  the 
retired  dressmaker,  a  little  old  maid  who  had  a  tiny  room  a  few 
doors  down  the  hall.  It  adjoined  that  of  Old  Grannis. 

Quite  an  affair  had  arisen  from  this  circumstance.  Miss  Baker 
and  Old  Grannis  were  both  over  sixty,  and  yet  it  was  current  talk 
among  the  lodgers  of  the  flat  that  the  two  were  in  love  with  each 
other.  Singularly  enough,  they  were  not  even  acquaintances ;  never 
a  word  had  passed  between  them.  At  intervals  they  met  on  the 
stairway ;  he  on  his  way  to  his  little  dog  hospital,  she  returning  from 
a  bit  of  marketing  in  the  street.  At  such  times  they  passed  each 
other  with  averted  eyes,  pretending  a  certain  preoccupation,  sud 
denly  seized  with  a  great  embarrassment,  the  timidity  of  a  second 
childhood.  He  went  on  about  his  business,  disturbed  and  thought 
ful.  She  hurried  up  to  her  tiny  room,  her  curious  little  false  curls 
shaking  with  her  agitation,  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  flush  coming 
and  going  in  her  withered  cheeks.  The  emotion  of  one  of  these 


12  McTeague 

chance  meetings  remained  with  them  during  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Was  it  the  first  romance  in  the  lives  of  each?  Did  Old  Grannis 
ever  remember  a  certain  face  among  those  that  he  had  known  when 
he  was  young  Grannis — the  face  of  some  pale-haired  girl,  such  as  one 
sees  in  the  old  cathedral  towns  of  England?  Did  Miss  Baker  still 
treasure  up  in  a  seldom  opened  drawer  or  box  some  faded  daguer 
reotype,  some  strange  old-fashioned  likeness,  with  its  curling  hair 
and  high  stock  ?  It  was  impossible  to  say. 

Maria  Macapa,  the  Mexican  woman  who  took  care  of  the  lodg 
ers'  rooms,  had  been  the  first  to  call  the  flat's  attention  to  the  affair, 
spreading  the  news  of  it  from  room  to  room,  from  floor  to  floor. 
Of  late  she  had  made  a  great  discovery ;  all  the  women  folk  of  the 
flat  were  yet  vibrant  with  it.  Old  Grannis  came  home  from  his  work' 
at  four  o'clock,  and  between  that  time  and  six  Miss  Baker  would  sit 
in  her  room,  her  hands  idle  in  her  lap,  doing  nothing,  listening, 
waiting.  Old  Grannis  did  the  same,  drawing  his  armchair  near  to 
the  wall,  knowing  that  Miss  Baker  was  upon  the  other  side,  con 
scious,  perhaps,  that  she  was  thinking  of  him;  and  there  the  two 
would  sit  through  the  hours  of  the  afternoon,  listening  and  waiting, 
they  did  not  know  exactly  for  what,  but  near  to  each  other,  sepa 
rated  only  by  the  thin  partition  of  their  rooms.  They  had  come  to 
know  each  other's  habits.  Old  Grannis  knew  that  at  quarter  of  five 
precisely  Miss  Baker  made  a  cup  of  tea  over  the  oil  stove  on  the 
stand  between  the  bureau  and  the  window.  Miss  Baker  felt  instinc 
tively  the  exact  moment  when  Ola  Grannis  took  down  his  little  bind 
ing  apparatus  from  the  second  shelf  of  his  clothes  closet  and  began 
his  favorite  occupation  of  binding  pamphlets — pamphlets  that  he 
never  read,  for  all  that. 

In  his  "Parlors"  McTeague  began  his  week's  work.  He  glanced 
in  the  glass  saucer  in  which  he  kept  his  sponge-gold,  and  noticing 
that  he  had  used  up  all  his  pellets,  set  about  making  some  more.  In 
examining  'Miss  Baker's  teeth  at  the  preliminary  sitting  he  had 
found  a  cavity  in  one  of  the  incisors.  Miss  Baker  had  decided  to 
have  it  filled  with  gold.  McTeague  remembered  now  that  it  was 
what  is  called  a  "proximate  case,"  where  there  is  not  sufficient  room 
to  fill  with  large  pieces  of  gold.  He  told  himself  that  he  should 
have  to  use  "mats"  in  the  filling.  He  made  some  dozen  of  these 
"mats"  from  his  tape  of  non-cohesive  gold,  cutting  transversely 
into  small  pieces  that  could  be  inserted  edgewise  between  the  teeth 
and  consolidated  by  packing.  After  he  had  made  his  "mats"  he 
continued  with  the  other  kind  of  gold  fillings,  such  as  he  would  have 


McTeague  13 

occasion  to  use  during  the  week ;  "blocks"  to  be  used  in  large  prox 
imal  cavities,  made  by  folding  the  tape  on  itself  a  number  of  times 
and  then  shaping  it  with  the  soldering  pliers ;  "cylinders"  for  com 
mencing  fillings,  which  he  formed  by  rolling  the  tape  around  a 
needle  called  a  "broach,"  cutting  it  afterward  into  different  lengths. 
He  worked  slowly,  mechanically,  turning  the  foil  between  his  fin 
gers  with  the  manual  dexterity  that  one  sometimes  sees  in  stupid/ 
persons.  His  head  was  quite  empty  of  all  thought,  and  he  did  not 
whistle  over  his  work  as  another  man  might  have  done.  The 
canary  made  up  for  his  silence,  trilling  and  chittering  continually, 
spashing  about  in  its  morning  bath,  keeping  up  an  incessant  noise 
and  movement  that  would  have  been  maddening  to  any  one  but  Mc 
Teague,  who  seemed  to  have  no  nerves  at  all. 

After  he  had  finished  his  fillings,  he  made  a  hook  broach  from 
a  bit  of  piano  wire  to  replace  an  old  one  that  he  had  lost.  It  was 
time  for  his  dinner  then,  and  when  he  returned  from  the  car  con 
ductors'  coffee- joint,  he  found  Miss  Baker  waiting  for  him. 

The  ancient  little  dressmaker  was  at  all  times  willing  to  talk 
of  Old  Grannis  to  anybody  that  would  listen,  quite  unconscious 
of  the  gossip  of  the  flat.  McTeague  found  her  all  a-flutter  with  ex 
citement.  Something  extraordinary  had  happened.  She  had  found 
out  that  the  wall-paper  in  Old  Grannis's  room  was  the  same  as  that 
in  hers. 

"It  has  led  me  to  thinking,  Doctor  McTeague,"  she  exclaimed, 
shaking  her  little  false  curls  at  him.  "You  know  my  room  is  so 
small,  anyhow,  and  the  wall-paper  being  the  same — the  pattern  from 
my  room  continues  right  into  his — I  declare,  I  believe  at  one  time 
that  was  all  one  room.  Think  of  it,  do  you  suppose  it  was?  It 
almost  amounts  to  our  occupying  the  same  room.  I  don't  know — 
why,  really — do  you  think  I  should  speak  to  the  landlady  about  it? 
He  bound  pamphlets  last  night  until  half-past  nine.  They  say  that 
he's  the  younger  son  of  a  baronet ;  that  there  are  reasons  for  his  not 
coming  to  the  title ;  his  stepfather  wronged  him  cruelly." 

No  one  had  ever  said  such  a  thing.  It  was  preposterous  to  im 
agine  any  mystery  connected  with  Old  Grannis.  Miss  Baker  had 
chosen  to  invent  the  little  fiction,  had  created  the  title  and  the  unjust 
stepfather  from  some'  dim  memories  of^theThovels  of  her  girlhood. 

She  took  her  place"  m  fHe"operating  cfiair.  McTeague  began  the 
filling.  There  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  impossible  for  McTeague 
to  work  and  talk  at  the  same  time. 

He  was  just  burnishing  the  last  "mat"  in  Miss  Baker's  tooth, 


14  McTeague 

when  the  door  of  the  "Parlors"  opened,  jangling  the  bell  which  he 
had  hung  over  it,  and  which  was  absolutely  unnecessary.  Mc 
Teague  turned,  one  foot  on  the  pedal  of  his  dental  engine,  the  co 
rundum  disk  whirling  between  his  fingers. 

It  was  Marcus  Schouler  who  came  in,  ushering  a  young  girl  of 
about  twenty. 

"Hello,  'Mac,"  exclaimed  Marcus;  "busy?  Brought  my  cousin 
round  about  that  broken  tooth." 

McTeague  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"In  a  minute,"  he  answered. 

Marcus  and  his  cousin  Trina  sat  down  in  the  rigid  chairs  under* 
neath  the  steel  engraving  of  the  Court  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici.  They 
began  talking  in  low  tones.  The  girl  looked  about  the  room,  notic 
ing  the  stone  pug  dog,  the  rifle  manufacturer's  calendar,  the  canary 
in  its  little  gilt  prison,  and  the  tumbled  blankets  on  the  unmade  bed- 
lounge  against  the  wall.  Marcus  began  telling  her  about  Mc 
Teague.  "We're  pals,"  he  explained,  just  above  a  whisper.  "Ah, 
Mac's  all  right,  you  bet.  Say,  Trina,  he's  the  strongest  duck  you 
ever  saw.  What  do  you  suppose  ?  He  can  pull  out  your  teeth  with 
his  fingers;  yes,  he  can.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  With  his 
fingers,  mind  you ;  he  can,  for  a  fact.  Get  on  to  the  size  of  him, 
anyhow.  Ah,  Mac's  all  right!" 

Maria  Macapa  had  come  into  the  room  while  he  had  been  speak- 
'ing.  She  was  making  up  McTeague's  bed.  Suddenly  Marcus  ex 
claimed  under  his  breath:  "Now  we'll  have  some  fun.  It's  the 
girl  that  takes  care  of  the  rooms.  She's  a  greaser,  and  she's  queer 
in  the  head.  She  ain't  regularly  crazy,  but  /  don't  know,  she's  queer. 
Y'ought  to  hear  her  go  on  about  a  gold  dinner  service  she  says  her 
folks  used  to  own.  Ask  her  what  her  name  is  and  see  what  she'll 
say."  Trina  shrank  back,  a  little  frightened. 

"No,  you  ask,"  she  whispered. 

"Ah,  go  on;  what  you  'fraid  of?"  urged  Marcus.  Trina  shook 
her  head  energetically,  shutting  her  Hps  together. 

"Well,  listen  here,"  answered  Marcus,  nudging  her;  then  rais 
ing  his  voice,  he  said: 

"How  do,  Maria?"  Maria  nodded  to  him  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  bent  over  the  lounge. 

"Workun  hard  nowadays,  Maria?" 

"Pretty  hard." 

"Didunt  always  have  to  work  for  your  living,  though,  did  you, 
when  you  ate  offa  gold  dishes?"  Maria  didn't  answer,  except  by 


McTeague  1 5 

putting  her  chin  in  the  air  and  shutting  her  eyes,  as  though  to  say 
she  knew  a  long  story  about  that  if  she  had  a  mind  to  talk.  All 
Marcus's  efforts  to  draw  her  out  on  the  subject  were  unavailing. 
She  only  responded  by  movements  of  her  head. 

"Can't  always  start  her  going,"  Marcus  told  his  cousin. 

"What  does  she  do,  though,  when  you  ask  her  about  her 
name  ?" 

"Oh,  sure,"  said  Marcus,  who  had  forgotten.  "Say,  Maria, 
what's  your  name?" 

"Huh?"  asked  Maria,  straightening  up,  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"Tell  us  your  name,"  repeated  Marcus. 

"Name  is  Maria — Miranda — Macapa."     Then,  after  a  pause,^ 
she  added,  as  though  she  had  but  that  moment  thought  of  it,  "Had 
a  flying  squirrel  an'  let  him  go." 

Invariably  Maria  Macapa  made  this  answer.  It  was  not  always  \ 
she  would  talk  about  the  famous  service  of  gold  plate,  but  a  question 
as  to  her  name  never  failed  to  elicit  the  same  strange  answer,  de 
livered  in  a  rapid  undertone :  "Name  is  Maria — Miranda — Macapa." 
Then,  as  if  struck  with  an  afterthought,  "Had  a  flying  squirrel  an' 
let  him  go." 

Why  Maria  should  associate  the  release  of  the  mythical  squirrel 
with  her  name  could  not  be  said.  About  Maria  the  flat  knew  abso- 
lutely  nothing  further  than  that  she  was  Spanish-American.  Miss  •• 
Baker  was  the  oldest  lodger  in  the  flat,  amI~Mana  was  a  fixture 
there  as  maid  of  all  work  when  she  had  come.  There  was  a  legend 
to  the  effect  that  Maria's  people  had  been  at  one  time  immensely 
wealthy  in  Central  America. 

Maria  turned  again  to  her  work.  Trina  and  Marcus  watched 
her  curiously.  There  was  a  silence.  The  corundum  burr  in  Mc- 
Teague's  engine  hummed  in  a  prolonged  monotone.  The  canary 
bird  chittered  occasionally.  The  room  was  warm,  and  the  breathing 
of  the  five  people  in  the  narrow  space  made  the  air  close  and  thick. 
At  long  intervals  an  acrid  odor  of  ink  floated  up  from  the  branch 
post-office  immediately  below. 

Maria  Macapa  finished  her  work  and  started  to  leave.  As  she 
passed  near  Marcus  and  his  cousin  she  stopped,  and  drew  a  bunch 
of  blue  tickets  furtively  from  her  pocket.  "Buy  a  ticket  in  the  lot 
tery?"  she  inquired,  looking  at  the  girl.  "Just  a  dollar." 

"Go  along  with  you,  Maria,"  said  Marcus,  who  had  but  thirty 
cents  in  his  pocket.  "Go  along;  it's  against  the  law." 

"Buy  a  ticket,"  urged  Maria,  thrusting  the  bundle  toward  Trina. 


1 6  McTeague 

"Try  your  luck.  The  butcher  on  the  next  block  won  twenty  dollars 
the  last  drawing." 

Very  uneasy,  Trina  bought  a  ticket  for  the  sake  of  being  rid  of 
her.  Maria  disappeared. 

"Ain't  she  a  queer  bird?"  murmured  Marcus.  He  was  much 
embarrassed  and  disturbed  because  he  had  not  bought  the  ticket  for 

Trina. 

But  there  was  a  sudden  movement.  McTeague  had  just  finished 
with  Miss  Baker. 

"You  should  notice,"  the  dressmaker  said  to  the  dentist,  in  a 
low  voice,  "he  always  leaves  the  door  a  little  ajar  in  the  afternoon." 
When  she  had  gone  out,  Marcus  Schouler  brought  Trina  forward. 

"Say,  Mac,  this  is  my  cousin,  Trina  Sieppe."  The  two  shook 
hands  dumbly,  McTeague  slowly  nodding  his  huge  head  with  its 
great  shock  of  yellow  hair.  Trina  was  very  small  and  prettily 
made.  Her  face  was  round  and  rather  pale ;  her  eyes  long  and  nar 
row  and  blue,  like  the  half-open  eyes  of  a  little  baby ;  her  lips  and 
the  lobes  of  her  tiny  ears  were  pale,  a  little  suggestive  of  anaemia; 
while  across  the  bridge  of  her  nose  ran  an  adorable  little  line  of 
freckles.  But  it  was  to  her  hair  that  one's  attention  was  most  at 
tracted.  Heaps  and  heaps  of  blue-black  coils  and  braids,  a  royal 
crown  of  swarthy  bands,  a  veritable  sable  tiara,  heavy,  abundant, 
odorous.  All  the  vitality  that  should  have  given  color  to  her  face 
seemed  to  have  been  absorbed  by  this  marvelous  hair.  It  was  the 
coiffure  of  a  queen  that  shadowed  the  pale  temples  of  this  little 
bourgeoise.  So  heavy  was  it  that  it  tipped  her  head  backward,  and 
the  position  thrust  her  chin  out  a  little.  It  was  a  charming  poise, 
innocent,  confiding,  almost  infantile. 

She  was  dressed  ail  in  black,  very  modest  and  plain.  The  effect 
of  her  pale  face  in  all  this  contrasting  black  was  almost  monastic. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Marcus  suddenly,  "I  got  to  go.  Must  get 
back  to  work.  Don't  hurt  her  too  much,  Mac.  S'long,  Trina." 

McTeague  and  Trina  were  left  alone.  He  was  embarrassed, 
troubled.  These  young  girls  disturbed  and  perplexed  him.  He  did 
not  like  them,  obstinately  cherishing  that  intuitive  suspicion  of  all 
things  feminine — the  perverse  dislike  of  an  overgrown  boy.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  was  perfectly  at  her  ease ;  doubtless  the  woman 
in  her  was  not  yet  awakened ;  she  was  yet,  as  one  might  say,  with 
out  sex.  She  was  almost  like  a  boy,  frank,  candid,  unreserved. 

She  took  her  place  in  the  operating  chair  and  told  hirrTwhat  was 
the  matter,  looking  squarely  into  his  face.  She  had  fallen  out  of  a 


McTeague  17 

swing  the  afternoon  of  the  preceding  day;  one  of  her  teeth  had 
been  knocked  loose  and  the  other  altogether  broken  out. 

McTeague  listened  to  her  with  apparent  stolidity,  nodding  his 
head  from  time  to  time  as  she  spoke.  The  keenness  of  his  dislike  of 
her  as  a  woman  began  to  be  blunted.  He  thought  she  was  rather 
pretty,  that  he  even  liked  her  because  she  was  so  small,  so  prettily 
made,  so  good-natured  and  straightforward. 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  your  teeth,"  he  said,  picking  up  his  mirror. 
"You  better  take  your  hat  off."  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
opened  her  mouth,  showing  the  rows  of  little  round  teeth,  as  white 
and  even  as  the  kernels  of  an  ear  of  green  corn,  except  where  an 
ugly  gap  came  at  the  side. 

McTeague  put  the  mirror  into  her  mouth,  touching  one  and  an 
other  of  her  teeth  with  the  handle  of  an  excavator.  By  and  by  he 
straightened  up,  wiping  the  moisture  from  the  mirror  on  his  coat- 
sleeve. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  the  girl,  anxiously,  "it's  a  dreadful  disfig 
urement,  isn't  it?"  adding,  "What  can  you  do  about  it?" 

"Well,"  answered  McTeague,  slowly,  looking  vaguely  about  on 
the  floor  of  the  room,  "the  roots  of  the  broken  tooth  are  still  in  the 
gum ;  they'll  have  to  come  out,  and  I  guess  I'll  have  to  pull  that 
other  bicuspid.  Let  me  look  again.  Yes,"  he  went  on  in  a  mo 
ment,  peering  into  her  mouth  with  the  mirror,  "I  guess  that'll  have 
to  come  out,  too."  The  tooth  was  loose,  discolored,  and  evidently 
dead.  "It's  a  curious  case,"  McTeague  went  on.  "I  don't  know  as 
I  ever  had  a  tooth  like  that  before.  It's  what's  called  necrosis.  It 
don't  often  happen.  It'll  have  to  come  out,  sure." 

Then  a  discussion  was  opened  on  the  subject,  Trina  sitting  up  in 
the  chair,  holding  her  hat  in  her  lap ;  McTeague  leaning  against  the 
window  frame,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  wandering  about 
on  the  floor.  Trina  did  not  want  the  other  tooth  removed ;  one  hole 
like  that  was  bad  enough ;  but  two — ah,  no,  it  was  not  to  be  thought 
of. 

But  McTeague  reasoned  with  her,  tried  in  vain  to  make  her 
understand  that  there  was  no  vascular  connection  between  the  root 
and  the  gum.  Trina  was  blindly  persistent,  with  the  persistency  of 
a  girl  who  has  made  up  her  mind. 

McTeague  began  to  like  her  better  and  better,  and  after  a  while 
commenced  himself  to  feel  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disfigure  such 
a  pretty  mouth.  He  became  interested;  perhaps  he  could  do  some 
thing,  something  in  the  way  of  a  crown  or  bridge.  "Let's  look  at 


1 8  McTeague 

that  again,"  he  said,  picking  up  his  mirror.    He  began  to  study  the 
situation  very  carefully,  really  desiring  to  remedy  the  blemish. 

It  was  the  first  bicuspid  that  was  missing,  and  though  part  of 
the  root  of  the  second  (the  loose  one)  would  remain  after  its  ex 
traction,  he  was  sure  it  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  sustain  a 
crown.  All  at  once  he  grew  obstinate,  resolving,  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  crude  and  primitive  man,  to  conquer  the  difficulty  in 
spite  of  everything.  He  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  technicalities 
of  the  case.  No,  evidently  the  root  was  not  strong  enough  to  sus 
tain  a  crown;  besides  that,  it  was  placed  a  little  irregularly  in  the 
arch.  But,  fortunately,  there  were  cavities  in  the  two  teeth  on 
either  side  of  the  gap — one  in  the  first  molar  and  one  in  the  palatine 
surface  of  the  cuspid;  might  he  not  drill  a  socket  in  the  remaining 
root  and  sockets  in  the  molar  and  cuspid,  and,  partly  by  bridging, 
partly  by  crowning,  fill  in  the  gap?  He  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it. 
Why  he  should  pledge  himself  to  this  hazardous  case  McTeague 
was  puzzled  to  know.  With  most  of  his  clients  he  would  have  con 
tented  himself  with  the  extraction  of  the  loose  tooth  and  the  roots 
of  the  broken  one.  Why  should  he  risk  his  reputation  in  this  case? 
r  He  could  not  say  why. 

It  was  the  most  difficult  operation  he  had  ever  performed.  He 
bungled  it  considerably,  but  in  the  end  he  succeeded  passably  well. 
He  extracted  the  loose  tooth  with  his  bayonet  forceps  and  prepared 
the  roots  of  the  broken  one  as  if  for  filling,  fitting  into  them  a  flat 
tened  piece  of  platinum  wire  to  serve  as  a  dowel.  But  this  was  only 
the  beginning;  altogether  it  was  a  fortnight's  work.  Trina  came 
nearly  every  other  day,  and  passed  two,  and  even  three,  hours  in 
the  chair. 

By  degrees  McTeague's  first  awkwardness  and  suspicion  van 
ished  entirely.  The  two  became  good  friends.  McTeague  even 
arrived  at  that  point  where  he  could  work  and  talk  to  her  at  the 
same  time — a  thing  that  had  never  before  been  possible  for  him. 

Never  until  then  had  McTeague  become  so  well  acquainted  with 
a  girl  of  Trina's  age.  The  younger  women  of  Polk  Street — the 
shop  girls,  the  young  women  of  the  soda  fountains,  the  waitresses 
in  the  cheap  restaurants — preferred  another  dentist,  a  young  fellow 
just  graduated  from  the  college,  a  poser,  a  rider  of  bicycles,  a  man 
about  town,  who  wore  astonishing  waistcoats  and  bet  money  on 
greyhound  coursing.  Trina  was  McTeague's  first  experience.  With 
her  the  feminine  element  suddenly  entered  his  little  world.  It  was 
not  only  her  that  he  saw  and  felt,  it  was  the  woman,  the  whole  sex, 


McTeague  19 

an  entire  new  humanity,  strange  and  alluring,  that  he  seemed  to 
have  discovered.  How  had  he  ignored  it  so  long?  It  was  daz 
zling,  delicious,  charming  beyond  all  words.  His  narrow  point  of 
view  was  at  once  enlarged  and  confused,  and  all  at  once  he  saw 
that  there  was  something  else  in  life  besides  concertinas  and  steam 
beer.  Everything  had  to  be  made  over  again.  His  whole  rude 
idea  of  life  had  to  be  changed.  The  male  virile  desire  in  him,  tar 
dily  awakened,  aroused  itself,  strong  and  brutal.  It  was  resistless, 
untrained,  a  thing  not  to  be  held  in  leash  an  instant. 

Little  by  little,  by  gradual,  almost  imperceptible  degrees,  the 
thought  of  Trina  Sieppe  occupied  his  mind  from  day  to  day,  from 
hour  to  hour.  He  found  himself  thinking  of  her  constantly;  at 
every  instant  he  saw  her  round,  pale  face;  her  narrow,  milk-blue 
eyes ;  her  little  out-thrust  chin ;  her  heavy,  huge  tiara  of  black  hair. 
At  night  he  lay  awake  for  hours  under  the  thick  blankets  of  the 
bed-lounge,  staring  upward  into  the  darkness,  tormented  with  the 
idea  of  her,  exasperated  at  the  delicate,  subtle  mesh  in  which  he 
found  himself  entangled.  During  the  forenoons,  while  he  went 
about  his  work,  he  thought  of  her.  As  he  made  his  plaster-of-paris 
molds  at  the  washstand  in  the  corner  behind  the  screen  he  turned 
over  in  his  mind  all  that  had  happened,  all  that  had  been  said  at  the 
previous  sitting.  Her  little  tooth  that  he  had  extracted  he  keptv) 
wrapped  in  a  bit  of  newspaper  in  his  vest  pocket.  Often  he  took  it  / 
out  and  held  it  in  the  palm  of  his  immense,  horny  hand,  seized  with 
some  strange  elephantine  sentiment,  wagging  his  head  at  it,  heaving 
tremendous  sighs.  What  a  folly! 

At  two  o'clock  on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays  Trina 
arrived  and  took  her  place  in  the  operating  chair.  While  at  his 
work  McTeague  was  every  minute  obliged  to  bend  closely  over  her ; 
his  hands  touched  her  face,  her  cheeks,  her  adorable  little  chin ;  her 
lips  pressed  against  his  fingers.  She  breathed  warmly  on  his  fore 
head  and  on  his  eyelids,  while  the  odor  of  her  hair,  a  charming 
feminine  perfume,  sweet,  heavy,  enervating,  came  to  his  nostrils,  so 
penetrating,  so  delicious,  that  his  flesh  pricked  and  tingled  with  it; 
a  veritable  sensation  of  faintness  passed  over  this  huge,  callous 
fellow,  with  his  enormous  bones  and  corded  muscles.  He  drew  a 
short  breath  through  his  nose;  his  jaws  suddenly  gripped  together 
vise-like. 

But  this  was  only  at  times — a  strange,  vexing  spasm,  that  sub 
sided  almost  immediately.  For  the  most  part,  McTeague  enjoyed 
the  pleasure  of  these  sittings  with  Trina  with  a  certain  strong  calm- 


ao  McTeague 

ness,  blindly  happy  that  she  was  there.  This  poor  crude  dentist  of 
Polk  Street,  stupid,  ignorant,  vulgar,  with  his  sham  education  and 
plebeian  tastes,  whose  only  relaxations  were  to  eat,  to  drink^  steam 
beer,  and  to  play  upon  his  concertina,  was  living  through  his  first 
romance,  his  first  idyl.  It  was  delightful.  The  long  hours  he 
passed  alone  with  Trina  in  the  "Dental  Parlors,"  silent,  only  for  the 
scraping  of  the  instruments  and  the  purring  of  bud-burrs  in  the  en 
gine,  in  the  foul  atmosphere,  overheated  by  the  little  stove  and 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  ether,  creosote,  and  stale  bedding,  had  all 
the  charm  of  secret  appointments  and  stolen  meetings  under  the 
moon. 

By  degrees  the  operation  progressed.  One  day,  just  after  Mc 
Teague  had  put  in  the  temporary  gutta-percha  fillings  and  nothing 
more  could  be  done  at  that  sitting,  Trina  asked  him  to  examine  the 
rest  of  her  teeth.  They  were  perfect,  with  one  exception — a  spot 
of  white  caries  on  the  lateral  surface  of  an  incisor.  McTeague  filled 
it  with  gold,  enlarging  the  cavity  with  hard-bits  and  hoe-ex 
cavators,  and  burring  in  afterward  with  half-cone  burrs.  The  cav 
ity  was  deep,  and  Trina  began  to  wince  and  moan.  To  hurt  Trina 
was  a  positive  anguish  for  McTeague,  yet  an  anguish  which  he  was 
obliged  to  endure  at  every  hour  of  the  sitting.  It  was  harrowing — • 
he  sweated  under  it — to  be  forced  to  torture  her,  of  all  women  in 
the  world;  could  anything  be  worse  than  that? 

"Hurt?"  he  inquired,  anxiously. 

She  answered  by  frowning,  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath,  put 
ting  her  fingers  over  her  closed  lips  and  nodding  her  head.  Mc 
Teague  sprayed  the  tooth  with  glycerite  of  tannin,  but  without  ef 
fect.  Rather  than  hurt  her  he  found  himself  forced  to  the  use  of 
anaesthesia,  which  he  hated.  He  had  a  notion  that  the  nitrous  oxide 
gas  was  dangerous,  so  on  this  occasion,  as  on  all  others,  used  ether. 

He  put  the  sponge  a  half  dozen  times  to  Trina's  face,  more 
nervous  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  watching  the  symptoms  close 
ly.  Her  breathing  became  short  and  irregular;  there  was  a  slight 
twitching  of  the  muscles.  When  her  thumbs  turned  inward  toward 
the  palms,  he  took  the  sponge  away.  She  passed  off  very  quickly, 
and,  with  a  long  sigh,  sank  back  into  the  chair. 

McTeague  straightened  up,  putting  the  sponge  upon  the  rack 
behind  him,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Trina's  face.  For  some  time  he 
stood  watching  her  as  she  lay  there,  unconscious  and  helpless,  and 
very  pretty.  He  was  alone  with  her,  and  she  was  absolutely  with 
out  defence. 


McTeague  21 

Suddenly  the  animal  in  the  man  stirred  and  woke;  the  evil  in 
stincts  that  in  him  were  so  close  to  the  surface  leaped  to  life,  shout 
ing  and  clamoring. 

It  was  a  crisis — a  crisis  that  had  arisen  all  in  an  instant;  a 
crisis  for  which  he  was  totally  unprepared.  Blindly,  and  without 
knowing  why,  McTeague  fought  against  it,  moved  by  an  unreasoned 
instinct  of  resistance.  Within  him,  a  certain  second  self,  another 
better  McTeague,  rose  with  the  brute ;  both  were  strong,  with  the 
'~~hnge"  crude  strengFh  of  the  man  himself.  The  two  were  at  grap 
ples.  There  in  that  cheap  and  shabby  "Dental  Parlor"  a  dreaded 
struggle  began.  It  was  the  old  battle,  old  as  the  world,  wide  as  the 
world — the  sudden  panther  leap  of  the  animal,  lips  drawn,  fangs 
aflash,  hideous,  monstrous,  not  to  be  resisted,  and  the  simultaneous 
arousing  of  the  other  man,  the  better  self  that  cries,  "Down,  down," 
without  knowing  why ;  that  grips  the  monster ;  that  fights  to  stran 
gle  it,  to  thrust  it  down  and  back. 

Dizzied  and  bewildered  with  the  shock,  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  known  before,  McTeague  turned  from  Trina,  gazing  be- 
wilderedly  about  the  room.  The  struggle  was  bitter;  his  teeth 
ground  themselves  together  with  a  little  rasping  sound;  the  blood 
sang  in  his  ears;  his  face  flushed  scarlet;  his  hands  twisted  them 
selves  together  like  the  knotting  of  cables.  The  fury  in  him  was 
as  the  fury  of  a  young  bull  in  the  heat  of  high  summer.  But  for 
all  that  he  shook  his  huge  head  from  time  to  time,  muttering : 

"No,  by  God!    No,  by  God!" 

Dimly  he  seemed  to  realize  that  should  he  yield  now  he  would 
never  be  able  to  care  for  Trina  again.  She  would  never  be  the 
same  to  him,  never  so  radiant,  so  sweet,  so  adorable;  her  charm 
for  him  would  vanish  in  an  instant.  Across  her  forehead,  her  little 
pale  forehead,  under  the  shadow  of  her  royal  hair,  he  would  surely 
see  the  smudge  of  a  foul  ordure,  the  footprint  of  the  monster.  It 
would  be  a  sacrilege,  an  abomination.  He  recoiled  from  it,  banding 
all  his  strength  to  the  issue. 

"No,  by  God!    No,  by  God!" 

He  turned  to  his  work,  as  if  seeking  a  refuge  in  it.  But  as  he 
drew  near  to  her  again,  the  charm  of  her  innocence  and  helplessness 
came  over  him  afresh.  It  was  a  final  protest  against  his  resolution. 
Suddenlyjie^ leaned  ovejt^and  kissed  her  ^grossly, ,_full ,  c«_ Jhe_mouth._ 
The  thing  was~dorie  before  he  knew  it.  Terrified  at  his  weakness' 
at  the  very  moment  he  believed  himself  strong,  he  threw  himself 
once  more  into  his  work  with  desperate  energy.  By  the  time  he 


22  McTeague 

was  fastening  the  sheet  of  rubber  upon  the  tooth,  he  had  himself 
once  more  in  hand.  He  was  disturbed,  still  trembling,  still  vibrat 
ing  with  the  throes  of  the  crisis,  but  he  was  the  master ;  the  animal 
was  downed,  was  cowed  for  this  time,  at  least. 

But  for  all  that,  the  brute  was  there.  Long  dormant,  it  was 
now  at  last  alive,  awake.  From  now  on  he  would  feel  its  presence 
continually;  would  feel  it  tugging  at  its  chain,  watching  its  oppor 
tunity.  Ah,  the  pity  of  it!  Why  could  he  not  always  love  her 
purely,  cleanly?  What  was  this  perverse,  vicious  thing  that  lived 
within  him,  knitted  to  his  flesh? 

Below  the  fine  fabric  of  all  that  was  good  in  him  ran  the  foul 
stream  of  hereditary  evil,  like  a  sewer.  The  vices  and  sins  of  his 
father  and  of  his  father's  father,  to  the  third  and  fourth  and  five 
hundredth  generation,  tainted  him.  The  evil  of  an  entire  race  flowed 
in  his  veins.  Why  should  it  be  ?  He  did  not  desire  it.  Was  he  to 
blame  ? 

But  McTeague  could  not  understand  this  thing.  It  had  faced 
him,  as  soon er,  or  later  it  faces  every^  child  of  rnan  ;  but  its  significance 
was  not  for  him.  To  reason  with  it  was  beyond  him.  He  could  only 
opj^se  to  it  an  instinctive  stubborn  resistance,  blind,  inert. 

cTeague  went   on   with  his   work.     As   he  was   rapping  in 

little  blocks  and  cylinders  with  the  mallet,  Trina  slowly  came 
back  to  herself  with  a  long  sigh.  She  still  felt  a  little  confused,  and 
lay  quiet  in  the  chair.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  uneven  tapping  of  the  hardwood  mallet.  By  and  by  she  said, 
"I  never  felt  a  thing,"  and  then  she  smiled  at  him  very  prettily  be 
neath  the  rubber  dam.  McTeague  turned  to  her  suddenly,  his 
mallet  in  one  hand,  his  pliers  holding  a  pellet  of  sponge-gold  in  the 
other.  All  at  once  he  said,  with  the  unreasoned  simplicity  and 
directness  of  a  child :  "Listen  here,  Miss  Trina,  I  like  you  better  than 
any  one  else;  what's  the  matter  with  us  getting  married?" 

Trina  sat  up  in  the  chair  quickly,  and  then  drew  back  from  hini, 
frightened  and  bewildered. 

"Will  you?  Will  you?"  said  McTeague.  "Say,  Miss  Trina, 
will  you?" 

"What  is  it?  What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  confusedly,  her 
words  muffled  beneath  the  rubber. 

"Will  you?"  repeated  McTeague. 

"No,  no,"  she  exclaimed,  refusing  without  knowing  why,  sud 
denly  seized  with  a  fear  of  him,  the  intuitive  feminine  fear  of  the 
male.  McTeague  could  only  repeat  the  same  thing  over  and  over 


McTeague  23 

again.     Trina,  more  and  more  frightened  at  his  huge  hands — the 
hands  of  the  old-time  car-boy — his  immense  square-cut  head  and  his 
enormous  brute  strength,  cried  out:  "No,  no,"  behind  the  rubber 
dam,  shaking  her  head  violently,  holding  out  her  hands,  and  shrink 
ing   down   before   him   in   the   operating   chair.      McTeague   came 
nearer  to  her,  repeating  the  same  question.     "No,  no,"  she  cried, 
terrified.     Then,  as  she  exclaimed,  "Oh,  I  am  sick,"  was  suddenly    ^ 
taken  with  a  fit  of  vomiting.    It  was  the  not  unusual  after  effect  of 
the  ether,  aided  now  by  her  excitement  and  nervousness.    McTeague"^ 
was  checked.     He  poured  some  bromide  of  potassium  into  a  gradu 
ated  glass  and  held  it  to  her  lips. 
"Here,  swallow  this,"  he  said. 


Ill 

ONCE  every  two  months  Maria  Macapa  set  the  entire  flat  in 
commotion.  She  roamed  the  building  from  garret  to  cellar,  search 
ing  each  corner,  ferreting  through  every  old  box  and  trunk  and 
barrel,  groping  about  on  the  top  shelves  of  closets,  peering  into 
ragbags,  exasperating  the  lodgers  with  her  persistence  and  impor 
tunity.  She  was  collecting  junk,  bits  of  iron,  stone  jugs,  glass 
bottles,  old  sacks,  and  cast-off  garments.  It  was  one  of  her  per 
quisites.  She  sold  the  junk  to  ZerkowJ_^the_j^^-boltle^sacks  man,_ 
who  lived  in  a  filthy  den  in  the  alley" just  back  of  the_flatj_jind_who 
sometimes ^^  pa!3~Tier"asJrnucF"as  three  .c_ejnfs7a  pound.  The  stone 
j  ugs,  however, T^vvere  wofth"aTnickel.  The  money  that  Zerkow  paid 
her,  Maria  spent  on  shirt  waists  and  dotted  blue  neckties,  trying  to 
dress  like  the  girls  who  tended  the  soda-water  fountain  in  the  candy 
store  on  the  corner.  She  was  sick  with  envy  of  these  young  women,  j 
They  were  in  the  world,  they  were  elegant,  they  were  debonair,  j 
they  had  their  "young  men." 

On  this  occasion  she  presented  herself  at  the  door  of  Old  Gran- 
nis's  room  late  in  the  afternoon.  His  door  stood  a  little  open.  That 
of  Miss  Baker  was  ajar  a  few  inches.  The  two  old  people  were 
"keeping  company"  after  their  fashion. 

"Got  any  junk,  Mister  Grannis?"  inquired  Maria,  standing  in 
the  door,  a  very  dirty,  half-filled  pillow-case  over  one  arm. 

"No,  nothing — nothing  that  I  can  think  of,  Maria,"  replied  Old 
Grannis,  terribly  vexed  at  the  interruption,  yet  not  wishing  to  be  un- 


24  McTeague 

kind.  "Nothing  I  think  of.  Yet,  however — perhaps — if  you  wish 
to  look." 

He  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  room  before  a  small  pine  table.  His 
little  binding  apparatus  was  before  him.  In  his  ringers  was  a  huge 
upholsterer's  needle  threaded  with  twine,  a  brad-awl  lay  at  his 
elbow,  on  the  floor  beside  him  was  a  great  pile  of  pamphlets,  the 
pages  uncut.  Old  Grannis  bought  the  "Nation"  and  the  "Breeder 
and  Sportsman."  In  the  latter  he  occasionally  found  articles  on 
dogs  which  interested  him.  The  former  he  seldom  read.  He  could 
not  afford  to  subscribe  regularly  to  either  of  the  publications,  but 
purchased  their  back  numbers  by  the  score,  almost  solely  for  the 
pleasure  he  took  in  binding  them. 

"What  you  alus  sewing  up  them  books  for,  Mister  Grannis?" 
asked  Maria,  as  she  began  rummaging  about  in  Old  Grannis's 
closet  shelves.  "There's  just  hundreds  of  'em  in  here  on  yer 
shelves;  they  ain't  no  good  to  you." 

"Well,  well,"  answered  Old  Grannis,  timidly,  rubbing  his  chin, 
"I — I'm  sure  I  can't  quite  say;  a  little  habit,  you  know;  a  diver 
sion,  a — a — it  occupies  one,  you  know.  I  don't  smoke;  it  takes  the 
place  of  a  pipe,  perhaps." 

"Here's  this  old  yellow  pitcher,"  said  Maria,  coming  out  of  the 
closet  with  it  in  her  hand.  "The  handle's  cracked ;  you  don't  want  it ; 
better  give  me  it." 

Old  Grannis  did  want  the  pitcher;  true,  he  never  used  it  now, 
but  he  had  kept  it  a  long  time,  and  somehow  he  held  to  it  as  old 
people  hold  to  trivial,  worthless  things  that  they  have  had  for  many 
years. 

"Oh,  that  pitcher — well,  Maria,  I — I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid — 
you  see,  that  pitcher — " 

"Ah,  go  'long,"  interrupted  Maria  Macapa,  "what's  the  good 
of  it?" 

"If  you  insist,  Maria,  but  I  would  much  rather — "  he  rubbed  his 
chin,  perplexed  and  annoyed,  hating  to  refuse,  and  wishing  that 
Maria  were  gone. 

"Why,  what's  the  good  of  it?"  persisted  Maria.  He  could  give 
no  sufficient  answer.  "That's  all  right,"  she  asserted,  carrying  the 
pitcher  out. 

"Ah — Maria — I  say,  you — you  might  leave  the  door — ah,  don't 
quite  shut  it— it's  a  bit  close  in  here  at  times."  Maria  grinned,  and 
swung  the  door  wide.  Old  Grannis  was  horribly  embarrassed ;  posi 
tively,  Maria  was  becoming  unbearable. 


McTeague  25 

"Got  any  junk?"  cried  Maria  at  Miss  Baker's  door.  The  little 
old  lady  was  sitting  close  to  the  wall  in  her  rocking-chair ;  her  hands 
resting  idly  in  her  lap. 

"Now,  Maria,"  she  said  plaintively,  "you  are  always  after  junk; 
you  know  I  never  have  anything  laying  'round  like  that." 

It  was  true.  The  retired  dressmaker's  tiny  room  was  a  marvel 
of  neatness,  from  the  little  red  table,  with  its  three  Gorham  spoons 
laid  in  exact  parallels,  to  the  decorous  geraniums  and  mignonettes 
growing  in  the  starch  box  at  the  window,  underneath  the  fish  globe 
with  its  one  venerable  goldfish.  That  day  Miss  Baker  had  been 
doing  a  bit  of  washing;  two  pocket  handkerchiefs,  still  moist,  ad 
hered  to  the  window  panes,  drying  in  the  sun. 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  got  something  you  don't  want,"  Maria  went  on, 
peering  into  the  corners  of  the  room.  "Look-a-here  what  Mister 
Grannis  gi'  me,"  and  she  held  out  the  yellow  pitcher.  Instantly 
Miss  Baker  was  in  a  quiver  of  confusion.  Every  word  spoken  aloud 
could  be  perfectly  heard  in  the  next  room.  What  a  stupid  drab 
was  this  Maria !  Could  anything  be  more  trying  than  this  position  ? 

"Ain't  that  right,  Mister  Grannis  ?"  called  Maria ;  "didn't  you  gi' 
me  this  pitcher?"  Old  Grannis  affected  not  to  hear;  perspiration 
stood  on  his  forehead;  his  timidity  overcame  him  as  if  he  were  a 
ten-year-old  schoolboy.  He  half  rose  from  his  chair,  his  fingers 
dancing  nervously  upon  his  chin. 

Maria  opened  Miss  Baker's  closet  unconcernedly.  "What's  the 
matter  with  these  old  shoes?"  she  exclaimed,  turning  about  with  a 
pair  of  half-worn  silk  gaiters  in  her  hand.  They  were  by  no  means 
old  enough  to  throw  away,  but  Miss  Baker  was  almost  beside  her 
self.  There  was  no  telling  what  might  happen  next.  Her  only 
thought  was  to  be  rid  of  Maria. 

"Yes,  yes,  anything.  You  can  have  them;  but  go,  go.  There's 
nothing  else,  not  a  thing." 

Maria  went  out  into  the  hall,  leaving  Miss  Baker's  door  wide 
open,  as  if  maliciously.  She  had  left  the  dirty  pillow-case  on  the 
floor  in  the  hall,  and  she  stood  outside,  between  the  two  open  doors, 
stowing  away  the  old  pitcher  and  the  half-worn  silk  shoes.  She 
made  remarks  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  calling  now  to  Miss  Baker, 
now  to  Old  Grannis.  In  a  way  she  brought  the  two  old  people  face 
to  face.  Each  time  they  were  forced  to  answer  her  questions  it 
was  as  if  they  were  talking  directly  to  each  other. 

"These  here  are  first-rate  shoes,  Miss  Baker.  Look  here,  Mister 
Grannis,  get  on  to  the  shoes  Miss  Baker  gi'  me.  You  ain't  got  a 

B— III— NORRIS 


a  6  McTeague 

pair  you  don't  want,  have  you?  You  two  people  have  less  junk  than 
any  one  else  in  the  flat.  How  do  you  manage,  Mister  Grannis? 
You  old  bachelors  are  just  like  old  maids,  just  as  neat  as  pins. 
You  two  are  just  alike — you  and  Mister  Grannis — ain't  you,  Miss 
Baker?" 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  horribly  constrained,  more  awk 
ward.  The  two  old  people  suffered  veritable  torture.  When  Maria 
had  gone,  each  heaved  a  sigh  of  unspeakable  relief.  Softly  they 
pushed  to  their  doors,  leaving  open  a  space  of  half  a  dozen  inches. 
Old  Grannis  went  back  to  his  binding.  Miss  Baker  brewed  a  cup 
of  tea  to  quiet  her  nerves.  Each  tried  to  regain  their  composure, 
but  in  vain.  Old  Grannis's  fingers  trembled  so  that  he  pricked  them 
with  his  needle.  Miss  Baker  dropped  her  spoon  twice.  Their 
nervousness  would  not  wear  off.  They  were  perturbed,  upset.  In 
a  word,  the  afternoon  was  spoiled. 

Maria  went  on  about  the  flat  from  room  to  room.  She  had  al 
ready  paid  Marcus  Schouler  a  visit  early  that  morning  before  he 
had  gone  out  Marcus  had  sworn  at  her,  excitedly  vociferating: 
"No,  by  damn!  No,  he  hadn't  a  thing  for  her;  he  hadn't,  for  a 
fact.  It  was  a  positive  persecution.  Every  day  his  privacy  was 
invaded.  He  would  complain  to  the  landlady,  he  would.  He'd  move 
out  of  the  place."  In  the  end  he  had  given  Maria  seven  empty 
whiskey  flasks,  an  iron  grate,  and  ten  cents — the  latter  because  he 
said  she  wore  her  hair  like  a  girl  he  used  to  know. 

After  coming  from  Miss  Baker's  room  Maria  knocked  at  Mc- 
Teague's  door.  The  dentist  was  lying  on  the  bed-lounge  in  his 
stocking  feet,  doing  nothing  apparently,  gazing  up  at  the  ceiling, 
lost  in  thought. 

Since  he  had  spoken  to  Trina  Sieppe,  asking  her  so  abruptly  to 
marry  him,  McTeague  had  passed  a  week  of  torment.  For  him 
there  was  no  going  back.  It  was  Trina  now,  and  none  other.  It 
was  all  one  with  him  that  his  best  friend,  Marcus,  might  be  in  love 
with  the  same  girl.  He  must  have  Trina  in  spite  of  everything;  he 
would  have  her  even  in  spite  of  herself.  He  did  not  stop  to  reflect 
about  the  matter;  he  followed  his  desire  blindly,  recklessly,  furious 
and  raging  at  every  obstacle.  And  she  had  cried  "No,  no!"  back 
at  him ;  he  could  not  forget  tha.t.  She,  so  small  and  pale  and  deli 
cate,  had  held  him  at  bay,  who  was  so  huge,  so  immensely  strong. 

Besides  that,  all  the  charm  of  their  intimacy  was  gone.  After 
that  unhappy  sitting,  Trina  was  no  longer  frank  and  straightfor 
ward.  Now  she  was  circumspect,  reserved,  distant.  He  could  no 


McTeague  27 

longer  open  his  mouth ;  words  failed  him.  At  one  sitting  in  particu 
lar  they  had  said  but  good-day  and  good-by  to  each  other.  He 
felt  that  he  was  clumsy  and  ungainly.  He  told  himself  that  she 
despised  him. 

But  the  memory  of  her  was  with  him  constantly.  Night  after 
night  he  lay  broad  awake  thinking  of  Trina,  wondering  about  her, 
racked  with  the  infinite  desire  of  her.  His  head  burned  and 
throbbed.  The  palms  of  his  hands  were  dry.  He  dozed  and  woke, 
and  walked  aimlessly  about  the  dark  room,  bruising  himself  against 
the  three  chairs  drawn  up  "at  attention"  under  the  steel  engraving, 
and  stumbling  over  the  stone  pug  dog  that  sat  in  front  of  the  little 
stove. 

Besides  this,  the  jealousy  of  Marcus  Schouler  harassed  him. 
Maria  Macapa,  coming  into  his  "Parlor"  to  ask  for  junk,  found 
him  flung  at  length  upon  the  bed-lounge,  gnawing  at  his  fingers  in 
an  excess  of  silent  fury.  At  lunch  that  day  Marcus  had  told  him 
of  an  excursion  that  was  planned  for  the  next  Sunday  afternoon. 
Mr.  Sieppe,  Trina's  father,  belonged  to  a  rifle  club  that  was  to  hold 
a  meet  at  Schuetzen  Park  across  the  bay.  All  the  Sieppes  were 
going;  there  was  to  be  a  basket  picnic.  Marcus,  as  usual,  was  in 
vited  to  be  one  of  the  party.  McTeague  was  in  agony.  It  was  his 
first  experience,  and  he  suffered  all  the  worse  for  it  because  he  was 
totally  unprepared.  What  miserable  complication  was  this  in  which 
he  found  himself  involved?  It  seemed  so  simple  to  him  since  he 
loved  Trina  to  take  her  straight  to  himself,  stopping  at  nothing, 
asking  no  questions,  to  have  her,  and  by  main  strength  to  carry  her 
far  away  somewhere,  he  did  not  know  exactly  where,  to  some  vague 
country,  some  undiscovered  place  where  every  day  was  Sunday. 

"Got  any  junk?" 

"Huh?  What?  What  is  it?"  exclaimed  McTeague,  suddenly 
rousing  up  from  the  lounge.  Often  Maria  did  very  well  in  the 
"Dental  Parlors."  McTeague  was  continually  breaking  things 
which  he  was  too  stupid  to  have  mended;  for  him  anything  that 
was  broken  was  lost.  Now  it  was  a  cuspidor,  now  a  fire-shovel  for 
the  little  stove,  now  a  china  shaving  mug. 

"Got  any  junk?" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  remember,"  muttered  McTeague.  Maria 
roamed  about  the  room,  McTeague  following  her  in  his  huge  stock 
inged  feet.  All  at  once  she  pounced  upon  a  sheaf  of  old  hand  in 
struments  in  a  coverless  cigar-box,  pluggers,  hard  bits,  and  excava 
tors.  Maria  had  long  coveted  such  a  find  in  McTeague's  "Parlor," 


28  McTeague 

knowing  it  should  be  somewhere  about.  The  instruments  were  of 
the  finest  tempered  steel  and  really  valuable. 

"Say,  Doctor,  I  can  have  these,  can't  I?"  exclaimed  Maria. 
"You  got  no  more  use  for  them."  McTeague  was  not  at  all  sure 
of  this.  There  were  many  in  the  sheaf  that  might  be  repaired, 
reshaped. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  wagging  his  head.  But  Maria  Macapa,  know 
ing  with  whom  she  had  to  deal,  at  once  let  loose  a  torrent  of  words. 
She  made  the  dentist  believe  that  he  had  no  right  to  withhold  them, 
that  he  had  promised  to  save  them  for  her.  She  affected  a  great 
indignation,  pursing  her  lips  and  putting  her  chin  in  the  air  as 
though  wounded  in  some  finer  sense,  changing  so  rapidly  from  one 
mood  to  another,  filling  the  room  with  such  shrill  clamor,  that  Mc 
Teague  was  dazed  and  benumbed. 

"Yes,  all  right,  all  right,"  he  said,  trying  to  make  himself  heard. 
"It  would  be  mean.  I  don't  want  'em."  As  he  turned  from  her  to 
pick  up  the  box,  Maria  took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  steal  three 
"mats"  of  sponge-gold  out  of  the  glass  saucer.  Often  she  stole  Mc- 
Teague's  gold,  almost  under  his  very  eyes;  indeed,  it  was  so  easy 
to  do  so  that  there  was  but  little  pleasure  in  the  theft.  Then  Maria 
took  herself  off.  McTeague  returned  to  the  sofa  and  flung  himself 
upon  it  face  downward. 

A  little  before  supper  time  Maria  completed  her  search.  The 
flat  was  cleaned  of  its  junk  from  top  to  bottom.  The  dirty  pillow 
case  was  full  to  bursting.  She  took  advantage  of  the  supper  hour 
to  carry  her  bundle  around  the  corner  and  up  into  the  alley  where 
Zerkow  lived. 

When  Maria  entered  his  shop,  Zerkow  had  just  come  in  from  his 
daily  rounds.  His  decrepit  wagon  stood  in  front  of  his  door  like  a 
stranded  wreck;  the  miserable  horse,  with  its  lamentably  swollen 
joints,  fed  greedily  upon  an  armful  of  spoiled  hay  in  a  shed  at  the 
back. 

The  interior  of  the  junk  shop  was  dark  and  damp,  and  foul  with 
all  manner  of  choking  odors.  On  the  walls,  on  the  floor,  and  hang 
ing  from  the  rafters  was  a  world  of  debris,  dust-blackened,  rust- 
corroded.  Everything  was  there,  every  trade  was  represented,  every 
class  of  society ;  things  of  iron  and  cloth  and  wood ;  all  the  detritus 
that  a  great  city  sloughs  off  in  its  daily  life.  Zerkow's  junk  shop 
was^the  last  abiding-place,  the  almshouse,  of  such  articles  as  had 
outlived  their  usefulness. 

Maria  found  Zerkow  himself  in  the  back  room,  cooking  some 


McTeague  29 

sort  of  a  meal  over  an  alcohol  stove.^.  Zerkow_was  a  Polish  JewV- 
curiously  enough  his  hair  was  fiery. jedS  He  was  a  dry,  shriveled 
old  man  of  sixty  odd.  He  had  the  thin,  eager,  cat-like  lips  of 
the  covetous ;  eyes  that  had  grown  keen  as  those  of  a  lynx  from  long 
searching  amid  muck  and  debris ;  and  claw-like,  prehensile  fingers — 
the  fingers  of  a  man  who  accumulates,  but  never  disburses.  It  was 
impossible  to  look  at  Zerkow  and  not  know  instantly  that  greed — 
inordinate,  insatiable  greed — was  the  dominant  passion  of  the  man. 
He  was  the  Man  with  the  Rake,  groping  hourly  in  the  muck-heap 
of  the  city  for  gold,  for  gold,  for  gold.  It  was  his  dream,  his  pas 
sion;  at  every  instant  he  seemed  to  feel  the  generous  solid  weight 
of  the  crude  fat  metal  in  his  palms.  The  glint  of  it  was  constantly 
in  his  eyes ;  the  jangle  of  it  sang  forever  in  his  ears  as  the  jangling 
of  cymbals. 

"Who  is  it?  Who  is  it?"  exclaimed  Zerkow,  as  he  heard  Maria's 
footsteps  in  the  outer  room.  His  voice  was  faint,  husky,  reduced 
almost  to  a  whisper  by  his  prolonged  habit  of  street  crying. 

"Oh,  it's  you  again,  is  it  ?"  he  added,  peering  through  the  gloom 
ef  the  shop.    "Let's  see ;  you've  been  here  before,  ain't  you  ?    You're    ,  , 
the  Mexican  woman  from  Polk  Street.    Macapa's  your  name,  hey.?" 

Maria  nodded.  "Had  a  flying  squirrel  anklet  him  go,"  she  mut 
tered,  absently.  Zerkow  was  puzzled;  he  looked  .at  her  sharply  for 
a  moment,  then  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  movement  of  his  head. 

"Well,  what  you  got  for  me?"  he  said.  He  left  his  supper  to 
grow  cold,  absorbed  at  once  in  the  affair. 

Then  a  long  wrangle  began.  Every  bit  of  junk  in  Maria's  pillow 
case  was  discussed  and  weighed  and  disputed.  They  clamored  into 
each  other's  faces  over  Old  Grannis's  cracked  pitcher,  over  Miss 
Baker's  silk  gaiters,  over  Marcus  Schouler's  whiskey  flasks,  reaching 
the  climax  of  disagreement  when  it  came  to  McTeague's  instru 
ments. 

"AH,  no,  no!"  shouted  Maria.     "Fifteen  cents  for  the  lot!     I 
might  as  well  make  you  a  Christmas  present!    Besides,  I  got  some  ' 
gold  fillings  off  him;  look  at  um." 

Zerkow  drew  a  quick  breath  as  the  three  pellets  suddenly  flashed 
in  Maria's  palm.  There  it  was,  the  virgin  metal,  the  pure,  unalloyed 
ore,  his  dream,  his  consuming  desire.  His  fingers  twitched  and 
hooked  themselves  into  his  palms,  his  thin  lips  drew  tight  across  his 
teeth. 

"Ah,  you  got  some  gold,"  he  muttered,  reaching  for  it. 

Maria  shut  her  fist  over  the  pellets.    "The  gold  goes  with  the 


jo  McTeague 

others,"  she  declared.    You'll  gi'  me  a  fair  price  for  the  lot,  or  I'll 
take  urn  back." 

In  the  end  a  bargain  was  struck  that  satisfied  Maria.  Zerkow 
was  not  one  who  would  let  gold  go  out  of  his  house.  He  counted 
out  to  her  the  price  of  all  her  junk,  grudging  each  piece  of  money 
as  if  it  had  been  the  blood  of  his  veins.  The  affair  was  concluded. 

But  Zerkow  still  had  something  to  say.  As  Maria  folded  up 
the  pillow-case  and  rose  to  go,  the  old  Jew  said : 

"Well,  see  here  a  minute,  we'll — you'll  have  a  drink  before  you 
go,  won't  you  ?  Just  to  show  that  it's  all  right  between  us."  Maria 
sat  down  again. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I'll  have  a  drink,"  she  answered. 

Zerkow  took  down  a  whiskey  bottle  and  a  red  glass  tumbler  with 
a  broken  base  from  a  cupboard  on  the  wall.  The  two  drank  to 
gether,  Zerkow  from  the  bottle,  Maria  from  the  broken  tumbler. 
They  wiped  their  lips  slowly,  drawing  breath  again.  There  was  a 
moment's  silence. 

"Say,"  said  Zerkow  at  last,  "how  about  those  gold  dishes  you 
told  me  about  the  last  time  you  were  here?" 

"What  gold  dishes  ?"  inquired  Maria,  puzzled. 

"Ah,  you  know,"  returned  the  other.  "The  plate  your  father 
owned  in  Central  America  a  long  time  ago.  Don't  you  know,  it 
rang  like  so  many  bells?  Red  gold,  you  know,  like  oranges?" 

"Ah,"  said  Maria,  putting  her  chin  in  the  air  as  if  she  knew  a 
long  story  about  that  if  she  had  a  mind  to  tell  it.  "Ah,  yes,  that 
gold  service." 

"Tell  us  about  it  again,"  said  Zerkow,  his  bloodless  lower  lip 
moving  against  the  upper,  his  claw-like  fingers  feeling  about  his 
mouth  and  chin.  "Tell  us  about  it ;  go  on." 

He  was  breathing  short,  his  limbs  trembled  a  little.  It  was  as  if 
some  hungry  beast  of  prey  had  scented  a  quarry.  Maria  still  re 
fused,  putting  up  her  head,  insisting  that  she  had  to  be  going. 

"Let's  have  it,"  insisted  the  Jew.  "Take  another  drink."  Maria 
took  another  swallow  of  the  whiskey.  "Now,  go  on,"  repeated  Zer 
kow  ;  "let's  have  the  story."  Maria  squared  her  elbows  on  the  deal 
table,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing. 

"Well,  it  was  this  way,"  she -began.  "It  was  when  I  was  little. 
My  folks  must  have  been  rich,  oh,  rich  into  the  millions — coffee,  I 
guess— and  there  was  a  large  house,  but  I  can  only  ^member  the 
plate.  Oh,  that  service  of  plate !  It  was  wonderful.  There  were 
more  than  a  hundred  pieces,  and  every  one  of  them  gold.  You 


McTeague  3 1 

should  have  seen  the  sight  when  the  leather  trunk  was  opened.  It 
fair  dazzled  your  eyes.  It  was  a  yellow  blaze  like  a  fire,  like  a  sun 
set  ;  such  a  glory,  all  piled  up  together,  one  piece  over  the  other. 
Why,  if  the  room  was  dark  you'd  think  you  could  see  just  the  same 
with  all  that  glitter  there.  There  wa'n't  a  piece  that  was  so  much 
as  scratched;  every  one  was  like  a  mirror,  smooth  and  bright,  just 
like  a  little  pool  when  the  sun  shines  into  it.  There  was  dinner 
dishes  and  soup  tureens  and  pitchers ;  and  great,  big  platters  as  long 
as  that,  and  wide  too ;  and  cream- jugs  and  bowls  with  carved  han 
dles,  all  vines  and  things ;  and  drinking  mugs,  every  one  a  different 
shape ;  and  dishes  for  gravy  and  sauces ;  and  then  a  great,  big  punch 
bowl  with  a  ladle,  and  the  bowl  was  all  carved  out  with  figures  and 
bunches  of  grapes.  Why,  just  only  that  punch-bowl  was  worth  a 
fortune,  I  guess.  When  all  that  plate  was  set  out  on  a  table,  it 
was  a  sight  for  a  king  to  look  at.  Such  a  service  as  that  was  !  Each 
piece  was  heavy,  oh,  so  heavy !  and  thick,  you  know ;  thick,  fat 
gold,  nothing  but  gold — red,  shining,  pure  gold,  orange  red — and 
when  you  struck  it  with  your  knuckle,  ah,  you  should  have  heard! 
No  church  bell  ever  rang  sweeter  or  clearer.  It  was  soft  gold,  too ; 
you  could  bite  into  it,  and  leave  the  dent  of  your  teeth.  Oh,  that 
gold  plate !  I  can  see  it  just  as  plain — solid,  solid,  heavy,  rich,  pure 
gold;  nothing  but  gold,  gold,  heaps  and  heaps  of  it.  What  a  ser 
vice  that  was !" 

Maria  paused,  shaking  her  head,  thinking  over  the  vanished 
splendor.  Illiterate  enough,  unimaginative  enough  on  all  other  sub 
jects,  her  distorted  wits  called  up  this  picture  with  marvelous  dis 
tinctness.  It  was  plain  she  saw  the  plate  clearly.  Her  description 
was  accurate,  was  almost  eloquent. 

Did  that  wonderful  service  of  gold  plate  ever  exist  outside  of 
her  diseased  imagination?  Was  Maria  actually  remembering  some 
reality  of  a  childhood  of  barbaric  luxury?  Were  her  parents  at 
one  time  possessed  of  an  incalculable  fortune  derived  from  some 
Central  American  coffee  plantation,  a  fortune  long  since  confis 
cated  by  armies  of  insurrectionists,  or  squandered  in  the  support  of 
revolutionary  governments  ? 

It  was  not  impossible.  Of  Maria  Macapa's  past  prior  to  the 
time  of  her  appearance  at  the  "flat"  absolutely  nothing  could  be 
learned.  She  suddenly  appeared  from  the  unknown,  a  strange  woman 
of  a  mixed  race,  sane  on  all  subjects  but  that  of  the  famous  service 
of  gold  plate;  but  unusual,  complex,  mysterious,  even  at  her  best. 

But  what  misery  Zerkow  endured  as  he  listened  to  her  tale !    For 


3  2  McTeague 

he  chose  to  believe  it,  forced  himself  to  believe  it,  lashed  and 
harassed  by  a  pitiless  greed  that  checked  at  no  tale  of  treasure, 
however  preposterous.  The  story  ravished  him  with  delight.  He 
was  near  some  one  who  had  possessed  this  wealth.  He  saw  some 
one  who  had  seen  this  pile  of  gold.  He  seemed  near  it;  it  was 
there,  somewhere  close  by,  under  his  eyes,  under  his  ringers ;  it  was 
red,  gleaming,  ponderous.  He  gazed  about  him  wildly;  nothing, 
nothing  but  the  sordid  junk  shop  and  the  rust-corroded  tins.  What 
exasperation,  what  positive  misery,  to  be  so  near  to  it  and  yet  to  know 
that  it  was  irrevocably,  irretrievably  lost!  A  spasm  of  anguish 
passed  through  him.  He  gnawed  at  his  bloodless  lips,  at  the  hope 
lessness  of  it,  the  rage,  the  fury  of  it. 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  he  whispered ;  "let's  have  it  all  over  again.  Pol 
ished  like  a  mirror,  hey,  and  heavy?  Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  A 
punch-bowl  worth  a  fortune.  Ah !  and  you  saw  it,  you  had  it  all !" 

Maria  rose  to  go.  Zerkow  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  urging 
another  drink  upon  her. 

"Come  again,  come  again,"  he  croaked.  "Don't  wait  till  you've 
got  junk;  come  any  time  you  feel  like  it,  and  tell  me  more  about 
the  plate." 

He  followed  her  a  step  down  the  alley. 

"How  much  do  you  think  it  was  worth  ?"  he  inquired,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  a  million  dollars,"  answered  Maria,  vaguely. 

When  'Maria  had  gone,  Zerkow  returned  to  the  back  room  of  the 
shop,  and  stood  in  front  of  the  alcohol  stove,  looking  down  into  his 
cold  dinner,  preoccupied,  thoughtful. 

"A  million  dollars,"  he  muttered  in  his  rasping  guttural  whisper, 
his  finger-tips  wandering  over  his  thin,  cat-like  lips.  "A  golden  ser 
vice  worth  a  million  dollars;  a  punch-bowl  worth  a  fortune;  red 
gold  plates,  heaps  and  piles.  God!" 


IV 

THE  days  passed.  McTeague  had  finished  the  operation  on 
Trina's  teeth.  She  did  not  come  .any  more  to  the  "Parlors."  Mat 
ters  had  readjusted  themselves  a  little  between  the  two  during  the 
last  sittings.  Trina  yet  stood  upon  her  reserve,  and  McTeague  still 
felt  himself  shambling  and  ungainly  in  her  presence ;  but  that  con 
straint  and  embarrassment  that  had  followed  upon  McTeague's 


McTeague  33 

blundering  declaration  broke  up  little  by  little.  In  spite,  of  them 
selves  they  were  gradually  resuming  the  same  relative  positions 
they  had  occupied  when  they  had  first  met. 

But  McTeague  suffered  miserably  for  all  that.  He  never  would 
have  Trina,  he  saw  that  clearly.  She  was  too  good  for  him  ;  too 
delicate,  too  refined,  too  prettily  made  for  him,  who  was  so  coarse,  so 
enormous,  so  stupid.  She  was  for  some  one  else  —  Marcus,  no  doubt 
—  or  at  least  for  some  finer-grained  man.  She  should  have  gone  to 
some  other  dentist  ;  the  young  fellow  on  the  corner,  for  instance,  the 
poser,  the  rider  of  bicycles,  the  courser  of  greyhounds.  McTeague 
began  to  loathe  and  to  envy  this  fellow.  He  spied  upon  him  going 
in  and  out  of  his  office,  and  noted  his  salmon-pink  neckties  and 
his  astonishing  waistcoats. 

One  Sunday,  a  few  days  after  Trina's  last  sitting,  McTeague 
met  Marcus  Schouler  at  his  table  in  the  car  conductors'  coffee-  joint, 
next  to  the  harness  shop. 

"What  you  got  to  do  this  afternoon,  Mac?"  inquired  the  other, 
as  they  ate  their  suet  pudding. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  replied  McTeague,  shaking  his  head.  His 
mouth  was  full  of  pudding.  It  made  him  warm  to  eat,  and  little 
beads  of  perspiration  stood  across  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  He 
looked  forward  to  an  afternoon  passed  in  his  operating  chair  as 
usual.  On  leaving  his  "Parlors"  he  had  put  ten  cents  into  his 
pitcher  and  had  left  it  at  Frenna's  to  be  filled. 

"What  do  you  say  we  take  a  walk,  huh?"  said  Marcus.  "Ah, 
that's  the  thing  —  a  walk,  a  long  walk,  by  damn  !  It'll  be  outa  sight. 
I  got  to  take  three  or  four  of  the  dogs  out  for  exercise,  anyhow. 
Old  Grannis  thinks  they  need  ut.  We'll  walk  out  to  the  Presidio." 

Of  late  it  had  become  the  custom  of  the  two  friends  to  take  long 
walks  from  time  to  time.  On  holidays  and  on  those  Sunday  after- 
•noons  when  Marcus  was  not  absent  with  the  Sieppes  they  went  out 
together,  sometimes  to  the  park,  sometimes  to  the  Presidio,  some 
times  even  across  the  bay.  They  took  a  great  pleasure  in  each  \ 
other's  company,  but  silently  and  with  reservation,  having  the  mas 
culine  horror  of  any  demonstration  of  friendship. 


out  the 

length  of  California  Street,  and  across  the  Presidio  Reservation  to 
the  Golden  Gate.  Then  they  .turned,  and,  following  the  line  of  the 
shore,  brought  up  at  the  Cliff  House.  Here  they  halted  for  beer, 
Marcus  swearing  that  his  mouth  was  as  dry  as  a  hay-bin.  Before 
starting  on  their  walk  they  had  gone  around  to  the  little  dog  hos- 


34  McTeague 

pital,  and  Marcus  had  let  out  four  of  the  convalescents,  crazed  with 
joy  at  the  release. 

"Look  at  that  dog,"  he  cried  to  McTeague,  showing  him  a  finely- 
bred  Irish  setter.  "That's  the  dog  that  belonged  to  the  duck  on  the 
avenue,  the  dog  we  called  for  that  day.  I've  bought  'um.  The  duck 
thought  he  had  the  distemper,  and  just  threw  'um  away.  Nothun 
wrong  with  'um  but  a  little  catarrh.  Ain't  he  a  bird?  Say,  ain't 
be  a  bird?  Look  at  his  flag;  it's  perfect;  and  see  how  he  carries  his 
tail  on  a  line  with  his  back.  See  how  stiff  and  white  his  whiskers 
are.  Oh,  by  damn!  you  can't  fool  me  on  a  dog.  That  dog's  a 
winner." 

At  the  Cliff  House  the  two  sat  down  to  their  beer  in  a  quiet 
corner  of  the  billiard-room.  There  were  but  two  players.  Some 
where  in  another  part  of  the  building  a  mammoth  music-box  was 
jangling  out  a  quickstep.  From  outside  came  the  long,  rhythmical 
rush  of  the  surf  and  the  sonorous  barking  of  the  seals  upon  the  seal 
rocks.  The  four  dogs  curled  themselves  down  upon  the  sanded 
floor. 

"Here's  how,"  said  Marcus,  half  emptying  his  glass.  "Ah-h !" 
he  added,  with  a  long  breath,  "that's  good ;  it  is,  for  a  fact." 

For  the  last  hour  of  their  walk  Marcus  had  done  nearly  all  the 
talking,  McTeague  merely  answering  him  by  uncertain  movements 
of  the  head.  For  that  matter,  the  dentist  had  been  silent  and  pre 
occupied  throughout  the  whole  afternoon.  At  length  Marcus  no 
ticed  it.  As  he  set  down  his  glass  with  a  bang  he  suddenly  ex 
claimed  : 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  these  .days,  Mac  ?  You  got  a  bean 
about  somethun,  hey?  Spit  ut  out." 

"No,  no,"  replied  McTeague,  looking  about  on  the  floor,  rolling 
his  eyes ;  "nothing,  no,  no." 

"Ah,  rats !"  returned  the  other.  McTeague  kept  silence.  The 
two  billiard  players  departed.  The  music-box  struck  into  a  fresh 
tune. 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  Marcus,  with  a  short  laugh, -  "guess  you're 
in  love." 

McTeague  gasped,  and  shuffled  his  enormous  feet  under  the 
table. 

"Well,  somethun's  bitun  you,  anyhow,"  pursued  Marcus.  "May 
be  I  can  help  you.  We're  pals,  you  know.  Better  tell  me  what's 
up ;  guess  we  can  straighten  ut  out.  Ah,  go  on ;  spit  ut  out." 

The  situation  was  abominable.     McTeague  could  not  rise  to  it. 


McTeague  3j 

Marcus  was  his  best  friend,  his  only  friend.  They  were  "pals"  and 
McTeague  was  very  fond  of  him.  Yet  they  were  both  in  love,  pre 
sumably,  with  the  same  girl,  and  now  Marcus  would  try  and  force 
the  secret  out  of  him ;  would  rush  blindly  at  the  rock  upon  which  the 
two  must  split,  stirred  by  the  very  best  of  motives,  wishing  only 
to  be  of  service.  Besides  this,  there  was  nobody  to  whom  McTeague 
would  have  better  preferred  to  tell  his  troubles  than  to  Marcus,  and 
yet  about  this  trouble,  the  greatest  trouble  of  his  life,  he  must  keep 
silent ;  must  refrain  from  speaking  of  it  to  Marcus  above  everybody. 

McTeague  began  dimly  to  feel  that  life  was  too  much  for  him. 
How  had  it  all  come  about?  A  month  ago  he  was  perfectly  content; 
he  was  calm  and  peaceful,  taking  his  little  pleasures  as  he  found 
them.  His  life  had  shaped  itself;  was,  no  doubt,  to  continue  al 
ways  along  these  same  lines.  A  woman  had  entered  his  small 
world  and  instantly  there  was  discord.  The  disturbing  element  had 
appeared.  Wherever  the  woman  had  put  her  foot  a  score  of  dis 
tressing  complications  had  sprung  up,  like  the  sudden  growth  of 
strange  and  puzzling  flowers. 

"Say,  Mac,  go  on;  let's  have  ut  straight,"  urged  Marcus,  lean 
ing  toward  him.  "Has  any  duck  been  doing  you  dirt?"  he  cried, 
his  face  crimson  on  the  instant. 

"No,"  said  McTeague,  helplessly. 

"Come  along,  old  man,"  persisted  'Marcus ;  "let's  have  ut.  What 
is  the  row?  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

It  was  more  than  McTeague  could  bear.  The  situation  had  got 
beyond  him.  Stupidly  he  spoke,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his 
head  rolled  forward. 

"It's— it's  Miss  Sieppe,"  he  said. 

"Trina,  my  cousin?  How  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Marcus 
sharply. 

"I — I — I  don'  know,"  stammered  McTeague,  hopelessly  con 
founded. 

"You  mean,"  cried  Marcus,  suddenly  enlightened,  "that  you  are 
— that  you,  too." 

McTeague  stirred  in  his  chair,  looking  at  the  walls  of  the  room, 
avoiding  the  other's  glance.  He  nodded  his  head,  then  suddenly 
broke  out: 

"I  can't  help  it.    It  ain't  my  fault,  is  it?" 

Marcus  was  struck  dumb ;  he  dropped  back  in  his  chair  breath 
less.  Suddenly  McTeague  found  his  tongue. 

"I  tell  you,  Mark,  I  can't  help  it.     I  don't  know  how  it  hap- 


2  6  McTeague 

pened.  It  came  on  so  slow  that  I  was,  that— that— that  it  was  done 
before  I  knew  it,  before  I  could  help  myself.  I  know  we're  pals,  us 
two,  and  I  knew  how— how  you  and  Miss  Sieppe  were.  I  know 
now,  I  knew  then;  but  that  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference. 
Before  I  knew  it— it— it— there  I  was.  I  can't  help  it.  I  wouldn't 
'a'  had  ut  happen  for  anything,  if  I  could  'a'  stopped  it,  but  I  don' 
know,  it's  something  that's  just  stronger  than  you  are,  that's  all. 
She  'came  there — Miss  Sieppe  came  to  the  parlors  there  three  or 
four  times  a  week,  and  she  was  the  first  girl  I  had  ever  known — 
and  you  don'  know !  Why,  I  was  so  close  to  her  I  touched  her  face 
every  minute,  and  her  mouth,  and  smelt  her  hair  and  her  breath — 
oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  can't  give  you  any  idea. 
I  don'  know  exactly  myself;  I  only  know  how  I'm  fixed.  I — I — 
it's  been  done;  it's  too  late,  there's  no  going  back.  Why,  I  can't 
think  of  anything  else  night  and  day.  It's  everything.  It's — it's — 
oh,  it's  everything!  I — I — why,  Mark,  it's  everything — I  can't 
explain."  He  made  a  helpless  movement  with  both  hands. 

Never  had  McTeague  been  so  excited;  never  had  he  made  so 
long  a  speech.  His  arms  moved  in  fierce,  uncertain  gestures,  his 
face  flushed,  his  enormous  jaws  shut  together  with  a  sharp  click 
at  every  pause.  It  was  like  some  colossal  brute  trapped  in  a  deli 
cate,  invisible  mesh,  raging,  exasperated,  powerless  to  extricate 
himself. 

Marcus  Schouler  said  nothing.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Mar 
cus  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  but 
seeing  nothing.  "Well,  who  would  have  thought  of  this  ?"  he  mut 
tered  under  his  breath.  Here  was  a  fix.  Marcus  cared  for  Trina. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  about  that.  He  looked  forward 
eagerly  to  the  Sunday  afternoon  excursions.  He  liked  to  be  with 
Trina.  He,  too,  felt  the  charm  of  the  little  girl — the  charm  of 
the  small,  pale  forehead;  the  little  chin  thrust  out  as  if  in  confi 
dence  and  innocence;  the  heavy,  odorous  crown  of  black  hair.  He 
liked  her  immensely.  Some  day  he  would  speak ;  he  would  ask  her 
to  marry  him.  Marcus  put  off  this  matter  of  marriage  to  some  fu 
ture  period ;  it  would  be  some  time — a  year,  perhaps,  or  two.  The 
thing  did  not  take  definite  shape  in  his  mind.  Marcus  "kept  com 
pany"  with  his  cousin  Trina,  but  he  knew  plenty  of  other  girls. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  he  liked  all  girls  pretty  well.  Just  now  the 
singleness  and  strength  of  McTeague's  passion  startled  him.  Mc- 
|  Teague  would  marry  Trina  that  very  afternoon  if  she  would  have 
;  him;  but  would  he — Marcus?  No,  he  would  not;  if  it  came  to 


McTeague  37 

that,  no,  he  would  not.  Yet  he  knew  he  liked  Trina.  He  could 
say — yes,  he  could  say — he  loved  her.  She  was  his  "girl."  The 
Sieppes  acknowledged  him  as  Trina's  "young  man."  Marcus  came 
back  to  the  table  and  sat  down  sidewise  upon  it. 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it,  Mac?"  he  said. 

"I  don*  know,"  answered  McTeague,  in  great  distress.  "I  don* 
want  anything  to — to  come  between  us,  Mark." 

"Well,  nothun  will,  you  bet!"  vociferated  the  other.  "No,  sir; 
you  bet  not,  'Mac." 

Marcus  was  thinking  hard.  He  could  see  very  clearly  that  Mc 
Teague  loved  Trina  more  than  he  did;  that  in  some  strange  way 
this  huge,  brutal  fellow  was  capable  of  a  greater  passion  than  him 
self,  who  was  twice  as  clever.  Suddenly  Marcus  jumped  impetu 
ously  "to  a  resolution. 

"Well,  say,  Mac,"  he  cried,  striking  .the  table  with  his  fist,  "go 
ahead.     I  guess  you — you  want  her  pretty  bad.     I'll  pull  out;  yes,  j 
I  will.    I'll  give  her  up  to  you,  old  man." 

The  sense  of  his  own  magnanimity  all  at  once  overcame  Marcus. 
He  saw  himself  as  another  man,  very  noble,  self-sacrificing;  he 
stood  apart  and  watched  this  second  self  with  boundless  admiration 
and  with  infinite  pity.  He  was  so  good,  so  magnificent,  so  heroic, 
that  he  almost  sobbed.  Marcus  made  a  sweeping  gesture  of  resig 
nation,  throwing  out  both  his  arms,  crying : 

"Mac,  I'll  give  her  up  to  you.  I  won't  stand  between  you." 
There  were  actually  tears  in  Marcus's  eyes  as  he  spoke.  There 
was  no  doubt  he  thought  himself  sincere.  At  that  moment  he  al 
most  believed  he  loved  Trina  conscientiously,  that  he  was  sacrificing 
himself  for  the  sake  of  his  friend.  The  two  stood  up  and  faced  each 
other,  gripping  hands.  It  was  a  great  moment;  even  McTeague 
felt  the  drama  of  it.  What  a  fine  thing  was  this  friendship  between  / 
men !  The  dentist  treats  his  friend  for  an  ulcerated  tooth  and  re 
fuses  payment ;  the  friend  reciprocates  by  giving  up  his  girl.  This 
was  nobility.  Their  mutual  affection  and  esteem  suddenly  increased  ^p 
enormously.  It  was  Damon  and  Pythias;  it  was  David  and  Jona 
than;  nothing  could  ever  estrange  them.  Now  it  was  for  life  or 
death. 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  murmured  McTeague.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  better  to  say.  "I'm  much  obliged,"  he  repeated;  "much 
obliged,  Mark." 

"That's  all  right,  that's  all  right,"  returned  Marcus  Schouler, 
bravely,  and  it  occurred  to  him  to  add,  "You'll  be  happy  together. 


3  8  McTeague 

Tell  her  for  me — tell  her — tell  her—  Marcus  could  not  go  on* 
He  wrung  the  dentist's  hand  silently. 

It  had  not  appeared  to  either  of  them  that  Trina  might  refuse 
McTeague.  McTeague's  spirits  rose  at  once.  In  Marcus's  with 
drawal  he  fancied  he  saw  an  end  to  all  his  difficulties.  Everything 
would  come  right,  after  all.  The  strained,  exalted  state  of  Mar 
cus's  nerves  ended  by  putting  him  into  fine  humor  as  well.  His 
grief  suddenly  changed  to  an  excess  of  gayety.  The  afternoon  was 
a  success.  They  slapped  each  other  on  the  back  with  great  blows 
of  the  open  palms,  and  they  drank  each  other's  health  in  a  third 
round  of  beer. 

Ten  minutes  after  his  renunciation  of  Trina  Sieppe,  Marcus  as 
tounded  McTeague  with  a  tremendous  feat. 

"Looka  here,  Mac.  I  know  somethun  you  can't  do.  I'll  bet 
you  two  bits  I'll  stump  you."  They  each  put  a  quarter  on  the 
table.  "Now  watch  me,"  cried  Marcus.  He  caught  up  a  billiard 
ball  from  the  rack,  poised  it  a  moment  in  front  of  his  face,  then 
with  a  sudden,  horrifying  distension  of  his  jaws  crammed  it  into 
his  mouth,  and  shut  his  lips  over  it. 

For  an  instant  McTeague  was  stupefied,  his  eyes  bulging.  Then 
an  enormous  laugh  shook  him.  He  roared  and  shouted,  swaying  in 
his  chair,  slapping  his  knee.  What  a  josher  was  this  Marcus !  Sure, 
you  never  could  tell  what  he  would  do  next.  Marcus  slipped  the 
ball  out,  wiped  it  on  the  tablecloth,  and  passed  it  to  McTeague. 

"Now  let's  see  you  do  it." 

McTeague  fell  suddenly  grave.  The  matter  was  serious.  He 
parted  his  thick  mustaches  and  opened  his  enormous  jaws  like  an 
anaconda.  The  ball  disappeared  inside  his  mouth.  Marcus  ap 
plauded  vociferously,  shouting,  "Good  work!"  McTeague  reached 
for  the  money  and  put  it  in  his  vest  pocket,  nodding  his  head  with 
a  knowing  air. 

Then  suddenly  his  face  grew  purple,  his  jaws  moved  convul 
sively,  he  pawed  at  his  cheeks  with  both  hands.  The  billiard  ball 
had  slipped  into  his  mouth  easily  enough;  now,  however,  he  could 
not  get  it  out  again. 

It  was  terrible.  The  dentist  rose  to  his  feet,  stumbling  about 
among  the  dogs,  his  face  working,  his  eyes  starting.  Try  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  stretch  his  jaws  wide  enough  to  slip  the  ball 
out.  Marcus  lost  his  wits,  swearing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Mc 
Teague  sweated  with  terror;  inarticulate  sounds  came  from  his 
crammed  mouth ;  he  waved  his  arms  wildly ;  all  the  four  dogs  caught 


McTeague  39 

the  excitement  and  began  to  bark.  A  waiter  rushed  in,  the  two  bil 
liard  players  returned,  a  little  crowd  formed.  There  was  a  veritable 
scene. 

All  at  once  the  ball  slipped  out  of  McTeague's  jaws  as  easily 
as  it  had  gone  in.  What  a  relief !  He  dropped  into  a  chair,  wiping 
his  forehead,  gasping  for  breath. 

On  the  strength  of  the  occasion  Marcus  Schouler  invited  the  en 
tire  group  to  drink  with  him. 

By  the  time  the  affair  was  over  and  the  group  dispersed  it  was 
after  five.  Marcus  and  McTeague  decided  they  would  ride  home  on 
the  cars.  But  they  soon  found  this  impossible.  The  dogs  would 
not  follow.  Only  Alexander,  Marcus's  new  setter,  kept  his  place  at 
the  rear  of  the  car.  The  other  three  lost  their  senses  immediately, 
running  wildly  about  the  streets  with  their  heads  in  the  air,  or  sud 
denly  starting  off  at  a  furious  gallop  directly  away  from  the  car* 
Marcus  whistled  and  shouted  and  lathered  with  rage  in  vain.  The 
two  friends  were  obliged  to  walk.  When  they  finally  reached  Polk 
Street,  Marcus  shut  up  the  three  dogs  in  the  hospital.  Alexander 
he  brought  back  to  the  flat  with  him. 

There  was  a  minute  back  yard  in  the  rear,  where  Marcus  had 
made  a  kennel  for  Alexander  out  of  an  old  water  barrel.  Before 
he  thought  of  his  own  supper  Marcus  put  Alexander  to  bed  and  fed 
him  a  couple  of  dog  biscuits.  McTeague  had  followed  him  to  the 
yard  to  keep  him  company.  Alexander  settled  to  his  supper  at  once, 
chewing  vigorously  at  the  biscuit,  his  head  on  one  side. 

"What  you  going  to  do  about  this — about  that — about — about 
my  cousin  now,  Mac?"  inquired  Marcus. 

McTeague  shook  his  head  helplessly.  It  was  dark  by  now  and 
cold.  The  little  back  yard  was  grimy  and  full  of  odors.  Mc 
Teague  was  tired  with  their  long  walk.  All  his  uneasiness  about 
his  affair  with  Trina  had  returned.  No,  surely  she  was  not  for  him. 
Marcus  or  some  other  man  would  win  her  in  the  end.  What  could 
she  ever  see  to  desire  in  him — in  him,  a  clumsy  giant,  with  hands 
like  wooden  mallets?  She  had  told  him  once  that  she  would  not 
marry  him.  Was  that  not  final? 

"I  don'  know  what  to  do,  Mark,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  must  make  up  to  her  now,"  answered  Marcus.  "Go 
and  call  on  her." 

McTeague  started.  He  had  not  thought  of  calling  on  her.  The 
idea  frightened  him  a  little. 

"Of  course,"  persisted  Marcus,  "that's  the  proper  caper.    What 


4<D  McTeague 

did  you  expect?  Did  you  think  you  was  never  going  to  see  her 
again  ?" 

"I  don'  know,  I  don'  know/'  responded  the  dentist,  looking 
stupidly  at  the  dog. 

"You  know  where  they  live,"  continued  Marcus  Schouler. 
"Over  at  B  Street  station,  across  the  bay.  I'll  take  you  over  there 
whenever  you  want  to  go.  I  tell  you  what,  we'll  go  over  there 
Washington's  Birthday.  That's  this  next  Wednesday;  sure,  they'll 
be  glad  to  see  you."  It  was  good  of  Marcus.  All  at  once  Mc 
Teague  rose  to  an  appreciation  of  what  his  friend  was  doing  for  him. 
He  stammered: 

"Say,  Mark — you're — you're  all  right,  anyhow." 

"Why,  pshaw !"  said  Marcus.  "That's  all  right,  old  man.  I'd 
like  to  see  you  two  fixed,  that's  all.  We'll  go  over  Wednesday,  sure." 

They  turned  back  to  the  house.  Alexander  left  off  eating  and 
watched  them  go  away,  first  with  one  eye,  then  with  the  other. 
But  he  was  too  self-respecting  to  whimper.  However,  by  the  time 
the  two  friends  had  reached  the  second  landing  on  the  back  stairs 
a  terrible  commotion  was  under  way  in  the  little  yard.  They  rushed 
to  an  open  window  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  looked  down. 

A  thin  board  fence  separated  the  flat's  back  yard  from  that  used 
by  the  branch  post-office.  In  the  latter  place  lived  a  collie  dog. 
He  and  Alexander  had  smelled  each  other  out,  blowing  through 
the  cracks  of  the  fence  at  each  other.  Suddenly  the  quarrel  had 
exploded  on  either  side  of  the  fence.  The  dogs  raged  at  each  other, 
snarling  and  barking,  frantic  with  hate.  Their  teeth  gleamed.  They 
tore  at  the  fence  with  their  front  paws.  They  filled  the  whole  night 
with  their  clamor. 

"By  damn!"  cried  Marcus,  "they  don't  love  each  other.  Just 
listen;  wouldn't  that  make  a  fight  if  the  two  got  together?  Have 
to  try  it  some  day." 


McTeague  41 


V 

WEDNESDAY  morning,  Washington's  Birthday,  McTeague  rose 
very  early  and  shaved  himself.  Besides  the  six  mournful  con 
certina  airs,  the  dentist  knew  one  song.  Whenever  he  shaved,  he 
sang  this  song ;  never  at  any  other  time.  His  voice  was  a  bellowing 
roar,  enough  to  make  the  window  sashes  rattle.  Just  now  he  woke 
up  all  the  lodgers  in  his  hall  with  it.  It  was  a  lamentable  wail : 

"No  one  to  love,  none  to  caress, 
Left  all  alone  in  this  world's  wilderness." 

As  he  paused  to  strop  his  razor,  Marcus  came  into  his  room, 
half-dressed,  a  startling  phantom  in  red  flannels. 

Marcus  often  ran  back  and  forth  between  his  room  and  the 
dentist's  "Parlors"  in  all  sorts  of  undress.  Old  Miss  Baker  had 
seen  him  thus  several  times  through  her  half-open  door,  as  she  sat 
in  her  room  listening  and  waiting.  The  old  dressmaker  was  shocked 
out  of  all  expression.  She  was  outraged,  offended,  pursing  her  lips, 
putting  up  her  head.  She  talked  of  complaining  to  the  landlady. 
"And  Mr.  Grannis  right  next  door,  too.  You  can  understand  how 
trying  it  is  for  both  of  us."  She  would  come  out  in  the  hall  after 
one  of  these  apparitions,  her  little  false  curls  shaking,  talking  loud 
and  shrill  to  any  one  in  reach  of  her  voice. 

"Well,"  Marcus  would  shout,  "shut  your  door,  then,  if  you  don't 
want  to  see.  Look  out,  now,  here  I  come  again.  Not  even  a  porous 
plaster  on  me  this  time." 

On  this  Wednesday  morning  Marcus  called  McTeague  out  into 
the  hall,  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  that  led  down  to  the  street  door. 

"Come  and  listen  to  Maria,  Mac,"  said  he. 

Maria  sat  on  the  next  to  the  lowest  step,  her  chin  propped  b'y 
her  two  fists.  The  red-headed  Polish  Jew,  the  ragman  Zerkow, 
stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was  talking  eagerly. 

"Now,  just  once  more,  Maria,"  he  was  saying.  ^"Tell  it  to  us 
just  once  more."  Maria's  voice  came  up  the  stairway  in  a  monotone. 
Marcus  and  McTeague  caught  a  phrase  from  time  to  time. 

"There  were  more  than  a  hundred  pieces,  and  every  one  of  them 


42  McTeague 

gold — just  that  punch-bowl  was  worth  a  fortune — thick,  fat,  red 
gold." 

"Get  on  to  that,  will  you?"  observed  Marcus.     "The  old  skin 
has  got  her  started  on  the  plate.    Ain't  they  a  pair  for  you  ?" 
"And  it  rang  like  bells,  didn't  it?"  prompted  Zerkow. 
"Sweeter'n  church  bells,  and  clearer." 

"Ah,  sweeter'n  bells.     Wasn't  that  punch-bowl  awful  heavy?" 
"All  you  could  do  to  lift  it." 

"I  know.     Oh,  I  know,"  answered  Zerkow,  clawing  at  his  lips. 
"Where  did  i+  all  go  to?    Where  did  it  go?" 
Maria  shook  her  head. 
"It's  gone,  anyhow." 

"Ah,  gone,  gone !    Think  of  it !    The  punch-bowl  gone,  and  the 
engraved  ladle,  and  the  plates  and  goblets.     What  a  sight  it  must 
have  been  all  heaped  together !" 
"It  was  a  wonderful  sight." 
"Yes,  wonderful ;  it  must  have  been." 

On  the  lower  steps  of  that  cheap  flat,  the  Mexican  woman  and 
the  red-haired  Polish  Jew  mused  long  over  that  vanished,  half- 
mythical  gold  plate. 

Marcus  and  the  dentist  spent  Washington's  Birthday  across  the 
bay.  The  journey  over  was  one  long  agony  to  McTeague.  He 
shook  with  a  formless,  uncertain  dread;  a  dozen  times  he  would 
have  turned  back  had  not  Marcus  been  with  him.  The  stolid  giant 
was  as  nervous  as  a  schoolboy.  He  fancied  that  his  call  upon  Miss 
Sieppe  was  an  outrageous  affront.  She  would  freeze  him  with  a 
r  stare;  he  would  be  shown  the  door,  would  be  ejected,  disgraced. 

As  they  got  off  the  local  train  at  B  Street  station  they  sud 
denly  collided  with  the  whole  tribe  of  Sieppes — the  mother,  father, 
three  children,  and  Trina — equipped  for  one  of  their  eternal  picnics. 
They  were  to  go  to  Schuetzen  Park,  within  walking  distance  of  the 
station.  They  were  grouped  about  four  lunch  baskets.  One  of  the 
children,  a  little  boy,  held  a  black  greyhound  by  a  rope  around  its 
neck.  Trina  wore  a  blue  cloth  skirt,  a  striped  shirt  waist,  and  a 
white  sailor ;  about  her  round  waist  was  a  belt  of  imitation  alligator 
skin. 

At  once  Mrs.  Sieppe  began  to  talk  to  Marcus.  He  had  written 
of  their  coming,  but  the  picnic  had  been  decided  upon  after  the 
arrival  of  his  letter.  Mrs.  Sieppe  explained  this  to  him.  She  was 
an  immense  old  lady  with  a  pink  face  and  wonderful  hair,  abso 
lutely  white.  The  Sieppes  were  a  German-Swiss  family. 


McTeague  43 

"We  go  to  der  park,  Schuetzen  Park,  mit  alle  dem  childern,  a 
little  eggs-kursion,  eh  not  soh?  We  breathe  der  freshes  air,  a 
celubration,  a  pignic  bei  der  seashore  on.  Ach,  dot  wull  be  soh 
gay,  ah?" 

"You  bet  it  will.  It'll  be  outa  sight,"  cried  Marcus,  enthusiastic 
in  an  instant.  "This  is  m'  friend,  Doctor  McTeague,  I  wrote  you 
about,  Mrs.  Sieppe." 

"Ach,  der  doktor,"  cried  Mrs.  Sieppe. 

McTeague  was  presented,  shaking  hands  gravely  as  Marcus 
shouldered  him  from  one  to  the  other. 

Mr.  Sieppe  was  a  little  man  of  a  military  aspect,  full  of  im 
portance,  taking  himself  very  seriously.  He  was  a  member  of  a 
rifle  team.  Over  his  shoulder  was  slung  a  Springfield  rifle,  while 
his  breast  was  decorated  by  five  bronze  medals. 

Trina  was  delighted.  McTeague  was  dumfounded.  She  ap 
peared  positively  glad  to  see  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  Doctor  McTeague,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him 
and  shaking  his  hand.  "It's  nice  to  see  you  again.  Look,  see  how 
fine  my  filling  is."  She  lifted  a  corner  of  her  lip  and  showed  him 
the  clumsy  gold  bridge. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Sieppe  toiled  and  perspired.  Upon  him  de 
volved  the  responsibility  of  the  excursion.  He  seemed  to  consider 
it  a  matter  of  vast  importance,  a  veritable  expedition. 

"Owgooste!"  he  shouted  to  the  little  boy  with  a  black  grey 
hound,  "you  will  der  hound  und  basket  number  three  carry.  Der 
tervins,"  he  added,  calling  to  the  two  smallest  boys,  who  were 
dressed  exactly  alike,  "will  releef  one  unudder  mit  der  camp-stuhl 
und  basket  number  four.  Dat  is  comprehend,  hay?  When  we 
make  der  start,  you  childern  will  in  der  advance  march.  Dat  is  your 
orders.  But  we  do  not  start,"  he  exclaimed,  excitedly ;  "we  re-main. 
Ach  Gott,  Selina,  who  does  not  arrive." 

Selina,  it  appeared,  was  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Sieppe's.  They  were 
on  the  point  of  starting  without  her,  when  she  suddenly  arrived, 
very  much  out  of  breath.  She  was  a  slender,  unhealthy-looking  girl, 
who  overworked  herself  giving  lessons  in  hand-painting  at  twenty- 
five  cents  an  hour.  McTeague  was  presented.  They  all  began  to 
talk  at  once,  filling  the  little  station  house  with  a  confusion  of 
tongues. 

"Attention!"  cried  Mr.  Sieppe,  his  gold-headed  cane  in  one 
hand,  his  Springfield  rifle  in  the  other.  "Attention!  We  depart." 
The  four  little  boys  moved  off  ahead;  the  greyhound  suddenly  be- 


44  McTeague 

gan  to  bark  and  tug  at  his  leash.  The  others  picked  up  their 
bundles. 

"Vorwarts !"  shouted  Mr.  Sieppe,  waving  his  rifle  and  assum 
ing  the  attitude  of  a  lieutenant  of  infantry  leading  a  charge.  The 
party  set  off  down  the  railroad  track. 

Mrs.  Sieppe  walked  with  her  husband,  who  constantly  left  her 
side  to  shout  an  order  up  and  down  the  line.  Marcus  followed  with 
Selina.  McTeague  found  himself  with  Trina  at  the  end  of  the 
procession. 

"We  go  off  on  these  picnics  almost  every  week,"  said  Trina,  by 
way  of  a  beginning,  "and  almost  every  holiday,  too.  It  is  a  cus 
tom." 

"Yes,  yes,  a  custom,"  answered  McTeague,  nodding;  "a  custom 
—that's  the  word." 

"Don't  you  think  picnics  are  fine  fun,  Doctor  McTeague?"  she 
continued.  "You  take  your  lunch ;  you  leave  the  dirty  city  all  day ; 
you  race  about  in  the  open  air,  and  when  lunch  time  comes,  oh, 
aren't  you  hungry?  And  the  woods  and  the  grass  smell  so  fine!" 

"I  don'  know,  Miss  Sieppe,"  he  answered,  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground  between  the  rails.  "I  never  went  on  a  picnic." 

"Never  went  on  a  picnic,"  she  cried,  astonished.  "Oh,  you'll 
see  what  fun  we'll  have.  In  the  morning  father  and  the  children 
dig  clams  in  the  mud  by  the  shore,  an'  we  bake  them,  and — oh, 
there's  thousands  of  things  to  do." 

"Once  I  went  sailing  on  the  bay,"  said  McTeague.  "It  was  in 
a  tugboat;  we  fished  off  the  heads.  I  caught  three  codfishes." 

"I'm  afraid  to  go  out  on  the  bay,"  answered  Trina,  shaking  her 
head,  "sailboats  tip  over  so  easy.  A  cousin  of  mine,  Selina's  brother, 
was  drowned  one  Decoration  Day.  They  never  found  his  body. 
Can  you  swim,  Doctor  McTeague?" 

"I  used  to  at  the  mine." 

"At  the  mine?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  Marcus  told  me  you  were 
a  miner  once." 

"I  was  a  car-boy ;  all  the  car-boys  used  to  swim  in  the  reservoir 
by  the  ditch  every  Thursday  evening.  One  of  them  was  bit  by  a 
rattlesnake  once  while  he  was  dressing.  He  was  a  Frenchman 
named  Andrew.  He  swelled  up  and  began  to  twitch." 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  snakes !  They're  so  crawly  and  graceful— but, 
just  the  same,  I  like  to  watch  them.  You  know  that  drug  store 
over  in  town  that  has  a  showcase  full  of  live  ones?" 

"We  killed  the  rattler  with  a  cart  whip." 


McTeague  45 

"How  far  do  you  think  you  could  swim?  Did  you  ever  try? 
D'you  think  you  could  swim  a  mile?" 

"A  mile?    I  don't  know.    I  never  tried.    I  guess  I  could." 

"I  can  swim  a  little.  Sometimes  we  all  go  out  to  the  Crystal 
Baths." 

'The  Crystal  Baths,  huh?    Can  you  swim  across  the  tank?" 

"Oh,  I  can  swim  all  right  as  long  as  papa  holds  my  chin  up. 
Soon  as  he  takes  his  hand  away,  down  I  go.  Don't  you  hate  to  get 
\vater  in  your  ears?" 

"Bathing's  good  for  you." 

"If  the  water's  too  warm,  it  isn't.    It  weakens  you." 

Mr.  Sieppe  came  running  down  the  tracks,  waving  his  cane. 

"To  one  side,"  he  shouted,  motioning  them  off  the  track;  "der 
drain  gomes."  A  local  passenger  train  was  just  passing  B  Street 
station,  some  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  them.  The  party  stood  to 
one  side  to  let  it  pass.  Marcus  put  a  nickel  and  two  crossed  pins 
upon  the  rail,  and  waved  his  hat  to  the  passengers  as  the  trarn 
roared  past.  The  children  shouted  shrilly.  Wheri  the  train  was 
gone,  they  all  rushed  to  see  the  nickel  and  the  crossed  pins.  The 
nickel  had  been  jolted  off,  but  the  pins  had  been  flattened  out  so 
that  they  bore  a  faint  resemblance  to  opened  scissors.  A  great 
contention  arose  among  the  children  for  the  possession  of  these 
"scissors."  Mr.  Sieppe  was  obliged  to  intervene.  He  reflected 
gravely.  It  was  a  matter  of  tremendous  moment.  The  whole 
party  halted,  awaiting  his  decision. 

"Attend  now,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "It  will  not  be  soh  soon. 
At  der  end  of  der  day,  ven  we  shall  have  home  becommen,  den  wull 
it  pe  adjudge,  eh?  A  reward  of  merit  to  him  who  der  bes'  pehaves. 
It  is  an  order.  Vorwarts!" 

"That  was  a  Sacramento  train,"  said  Marcus  to  Selina  as  they 
started  off;  "it  was,  for  a  fact." 

"I  know  a  girl  in  Sacramento,"  Trina  told  McTeague.  "She's 
forewoman  in  a  drug  store,  and  she's  got  consumption." 

"I  was  in  Sacramento  once,"  observed  McTeague,  "nearly  eight 
years  ago." 

"Is  it  a  nice  place — as  nice  as  San  Francisco?" 

"It's  hot.     I  practiced  there  for  a  while." 

"I  like  San  Francisco,"  said  Trina,  looking  across  the  bay  to 
where  the  city  piled  itself  upon  its  hills. 

"So  do  I,"  answered  McTeague.  "Do  you  like  it  better  than 
living  over  here?" 


46  McTeague 

"Oh,  sure,  I  wish  we  lived  in  the  city.  If  you  want  to  go  across 
for  anything  it  takes  up  the  whole  day." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  whole  day — almost." 

"Do  you  know  many  people  in  the  city?  Do  you  know  anybody 
named  Oelbermann?  That's  my  uncle.  He  has  a  wholesale  toy 
store  in  the  Mission.  They  say  he's  awful  rich." 

"No,  I  don'  know  him." 

"His  stepdaughter  wants  to  be  a  nun.  Just  fancy!  And  Mr. 
Oelbermann  won't  have  it.  He  says  it  would  be  just  like  burying 
his  child.  Yes,  she  wants  to  enter  the  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
Are  you  a  Catholic,  Doctor  McTeague?" 

"No.     No,  I—" 

"Papa  is  a  Catholic.  He  goes  to  Mass  on  the  feast  days  once 
in  a  while.  But  mamma's  Lutheran." 

"The  Catholics  are  trying  to  get  control  of  the  schools,"  ob 
served  McTeague,  suddenly  remembering  one  of  Marcus's  political 
tirades. 

"That's  what  cousin  Mark  says.  We  are  going  to  send  the 
twins  to  the  kindergarten  next  month." 

"What's  the  kindergarten?" 

"Oh,  they  teach  them  to  make  things  out  of  straw  and  tooth 
picks — kind  of  a  place  to  keep  them  off  the  street." 

"There's  one  up  on  Sacramento  Street,  not  far  from  Polk  Street. 
I  saw  the  sign." 

"I  know  where.    Why,  Selina  used  to  play  the  piano  there." 

"Does  she  play  the  piano?" 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  hear  her.  She  plays  fine.  Selina's  very  ac 
complished.  She  paints,  too." 

"I  can  play  on  the  concertina." 

"Oh,  can  you?  I  wish  you'd  brought  it  along.  Next  time  you 
will.  I  hope  you'll  come  often  on  our  picnics.  You'll  see  what  fun 
we'll  have." 

"Fine  day  for  a  picnic,  ain't  it?     There  ain't  a  cloud." 

"That's  so,"^  exclaimed  Trina,  looking  up,  "not  a  single  cloud. 
Oh,  yes ;  there  is  one,  just  over  Telegraph  Hill." 

"That's  smoke." 

<fNo,  it's  a  cloud.    Smoke  isn't  white  that  way  " 
r  Tis  a  cloud." 

"I  knew  I  was  right.     I  never  say  a  thing  unless  I'm  pretty 


sure. 


[It  looks  like  a  dog's  head." 


McTeague  47 

"Don't  it?    Isn't  Marcus  fond  of  dogs?" 

"He  got  a  new  dog  last  week — a  setter." 

"Did  he?" 

"Yes.  He  and  I  took  a  lot  of  dogs  from  his  hospital  out  for  a 
walk  to  the  Cliff  House  last  Sunday,  but  we  had  to  walk  all  the  way 
home,  because  they  wouldn't  follow.  You've  been  out  to  the  Cliff 
House?" 

"Not  for  a  long  time.  We  had  a  picnic  there  one  Fourth  of 
July,  but  it  rained.  Don't  you  love  the  ocean?" 

"Yes — yes,  I  like  it  pretty  well." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  go  off  in  one  of  those  big  sailing  ships.  Just 
away,  and  away,  and  away,  anywhere.  They're  different  from  a 
little  yacht.  I'd  love  to  travel." 

"Sure;  so  would  I." 

"Papa  and  mamma  came  over  in  a  sailing  ship.  They  were 
twenty-one  days.  Mamma's  uncle  used  to  be  a  sailor.  He  was 
captain  of  a  steamer  on  Lake  Geneva,  in  Switzerland." 

"Halt!"  shouted  Mr.  Sieppe,  brandishing  his  rifle.  They  had 
arrived  at  the  gates  of  the  park.  All  at  once  McTeague  turned 
cold.  He  had  only  a  quarter  in  his  pocket.  What  was  he  expected 
to  do — pay  for  the  whole  party,  or  for  Trina  and  himself,  or  merely 
buy  his  own  ticket?  And  even  in  this  latter  case  would  a  quarter 
be  enough?  He  lost  his  wits,  rolling  his  eyes  helplessly.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  to  feign  a  great  abstraction,  pretending  not  to 
know  that  the  time  was  come  to  pay.  He  looked  intently  up  and 
down  the  tracks;  perhaps  a  train  was  coming.  "Here  we  are," 
cried  Trina,  as  they  came  up  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  crowded  about 
the  entrance.  "Yes,  yes,"  observed  McTeague,  his  head  in  the  air. 

"Gi'me  four  bits,  Mac,"  said  Marcus,  coming  up.  "Here's  where 
we  shell  out." 

"I — I — I  only  got  a  quarter,"  mumbled  the  dentist,  miserably. 
He  felt  that  he  had  ruined  himself  forever  with  Trina.  What  was 
the  use  of  trying  to  win  her?  Destiny  was  against  him.  "I  only 
got  a  quarter,"  he  stammered.  He  was  on  the  point  of  adding  that 
he  would  not  go  in  the  park.  That  seemed  to  be  the  only  alter 
native. 

"Oh,  all  right !"  said  Marcus,  easily.  "I'll  pay  for  you,  and  you 
can  square  with  me  when  we  go  home." 

They  filed  into  the  park,  Mr.  Sieppe  counting  them  off  as  they 
entered. 

"Ah,"   said   Trina,   with   a  long  breath,   as   she   and   McTeague 


48  McTeague 

pushed  through  the  wicket,  "here  we  are  once  more,  Doctor."    She  \ 
had  not  appeared  to  notice  McTeague's  embarrassment.     The  diffi 
culty  had  been  tided  over  somehow.     Once  more  McTeague  felt 
himself  saved. 

"To  der  beach !"  shouted  Mr.  Sieppe.  They  had  checked  their 
baskets  at  the  peanut  stand.  The  whole  party  trooped  down  to  the 
seashore.  The  greyhound  was  turned  loose.  The  children  raced 
on  ahead. 

From  one  of  the  larger  parcels  Mr.  Sieppe  had  drawn  forth  a 
small  tin  steamboat — August's  birthday  present — a  gaudy  little  toy 
which  could  be  steamed  up  and  navigated  by  means  of  an  alcohol 
lamp.  Her  trial  trip  was  to  be  made  this  morning. 

"Gi'  me  it,  gi'  me  it,"  shouted  August,  dancing  around  his 
father. 

"Not  soh,  not  soh,"  cried  Mr.  Sieppe,  bearing  it  aloft.  "I  must 
first  der  eggsperimunt  make." 

"No,  no !"  wailed  August.    "I  want  to  play  with  ut." 

"Obey !"  thundered  Mr.  Sieppe.  August  subsided.  A  little  jetty 
ran  part  of  the  way  into  the  water.  Here,  after  a  careful  study 
of  the  directions  printed  on  the  cover  of  the  box,  Mr.  Sieppe  began 
to  fire  the  little  boat. 

"I  want  to  put  ut  in  the  waater,"  cried  August. 

"Stand  back!"  shouted  his  parent.  "You  do  not  know  so  well 
as  me;  dere  is  dandger.  Mitout  attention  he  will  eggsplode." 

"I  want  to  play  with  ut,"  protested  August,  beginning  to  cry. 

"Ach,  soh;  you  cry,  bube!"  vociferated  Mr.  Sieppe.  "Mom- 
mer,"  addressing  Mrs.  Sieppe,  "he  will  soh  soon  be  ge-whipt,  eh?" 

"I  want  my  boa-wut,"  screamed  August,  dancing. 

"Silence !"  roared  Mr.  Sieppe.  The  little  boat  began  to  hiss  and 
smoke. 

"Soh,"  observed  the  father,  "he  gommence.  Attention!  I  put 
him  in  der  water."  He  was  very  excited.  The  perspiration  dripped 
from  the  back  of  his  neck.  The  little  boat  was  launched.  It  hissed 
more  furiously  than  ever.  Clouds  of  steam  rolled  from  it,  but  it 
refused  to  move. 

"You  don't  know  how  she  wo-rks,"  sobbed  August. 

"I  know  more  soh  mudge  as  der  grossest  liddle  fool  as  you," 
cried  Mr.  Sieppe,  fiercely,  his  face  purple. 

"You  must  give  it  sh — shove!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"Den  he  eggsplode,  idiot !"  shouted  his  father.  All  at  once  the 
boiler  of  the  steamer  blew  up  with  a  sharp  crack.  The  little  tin 


McTeague  49 

toy  turned  over  and  sank  out  of  sight  before  any  one  could  inter 
fere. 

"Ah— h!     Yah!     Yah!"  yelled  August.     "It's  go-one!" 

Instantly  Mr.  Sieppe  boxed  his  ears.  There  was  a  lamentable 
scene.  August  rent  the  air  with  his  outcries ;  his  father  shook  him 
till  his  boots  danced  on  the  jetty,  shouting  into  his  face: 

"Ach,  idiot!  Ach,  imbecile!  Ach,  miserable!  I  tol'  you  he 
eggsplode.  Stop  your  cry.  Stop !  It  is  an  order.  Do  you  wish  I 
drow  you  in  der  water,  eh  ?  Speak.  Silence,  bube !  Mommer, 
where  ist  mein  stick?  He  will  der  grossest  whippun  ever  of  his  life" 
receive." 

Little  by  little  the  boy  subsided,  swallowing  his  sobs,  knuckling 
his  eyes,  gazing  ruefully  at  the  spot  where  the  boat  had  sunk.  "Dat 
is  better  soh,"  commented  Mr.  Sieppe,  finally  releasing  him.  "Next 
dime  berhaps  you  will  your  fat'er  better  pelief.  Now,  no  more. 
We  will  der  glams  ge-dig.  Mommer,  a  fire.  Ach,  himmel !  we 
have  der  pfeffer  forgotten." 

The  work  of  clamdigging  began  at  once,  the  little  boys  tak 
ing  off  their  shoes  and  stockings.  At  first  August  refused  to 
be  comforted,  and  it  was  not  until  his  father  drove  him  into 
the  water  with  his  gold-headed  cane  that  he  consented  to  join 
the  others. 

What  a  day  that  was  for  McTeague!  What  a  never-to-be-for 
gotten  day !  He  was  with  Trina  constantly.  They  laughed  to 
gether—she  demurely,  her  lips  closed  tight,  her  little  chin  thrust 
out,  her  small  pale  nose,  with  its  adorable  little  freckles,  wrinkling; 
he  roared  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs,  his  enormous  mouth  dis 
tended,  striking  sledge-hammer  blows  upon  his  knees  with  his 
clinched  fist. 

The  lunch  was  delicious.  Trina  and  her  mother  made  a  clam 
chowder  that  melted  in  one's  mouth.  The  lunch  baskets  were 
emptied.  The  party  were  fully  two  hours  eating.  There  were  huge 
rolls  of  rye  bread  full  of  grains  of  chickweed.  There  were  wiener- 
wurst  and  frankfurter  sausages.  There  was  unsalted  butter.  There 
were  pretzels.  There  was  cold  underdone  chicken,  which  one  ate 
in  slices,  plastered  with  a  wonderful  kind  of  mustard  that  did  not 
sting.  There  were  dried  apples,  that  gave  Mr.  Sieppe  the  hiccoughs. 
There  were  a  dozen  bottles  of  beer,  and,  last  of  all,  a  crowning 
achievement,  a  marvelous  Gotha  truffle.  After  lunch  came  tobacco. 
Stuffed  to  the  eyes,  McTeague  drowsed  over  his  pipe,  prone  on  his 
back  in  the  sun,  while  Trina,  Mrs.  Sieppe,  and  Selina  washed  the 

C— III-NORRIS 


jo  McTeague 

dishes.  In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Sieppe  disappeared.  They  heard 
the  reports  of  his  rifle  on  the  range.  The  others  swarmed  over  the 
park,  now  around  the  swings,  now  in  the  Casino,  now  in  the  mu 
seum,  now  invading  the  merry-go-round. 

At  half -past  five  o'clock  Mr.  Sieppe  marshaled  the  party  to 
gether.  It  was  time  to  return  home. 

The  family  insisted  that  Marcus  and  McTeague  should  take 
supper  with  them  at  their  home  and  should  stay  overnight.  Mrs. 
Sieppe  argued  they  could  get  no  decent  supper  if  they  went  back 
to  the  city  at  that  hour;  that  they  could  catch  an  early  morning, 
boat  and  reach  their  business  in  good  time.  The  two  friends  ac 
cepted. 

The  Sieppes  lived  in  a  little  box  of  a  house  at  the  foot  of  B 
Street,  the  first  house  to  the  right  as  one  went  up  from  the  station. 
It  was  two  stories  high,  with  a  funny  red  mansard  roof  of  oval 
slates.  The  interior  was  cut  up  into  innumerable  tiny  rooms,  some 
of  them  so  small  as  to  be  hardly  better  than  sleeping  closets.  In  the 
back  yard  was  a  contrivance  for  pumping  water  from  the  cistern 
that  interested  McTeague  at  once.  It  was  a  dog-wheel,  a  huge  re 
volving  box  in  which  the  unhappy  black  greyhound  spent  most  of 
his  waking  hours.  It  was  his  kennel ;  he  slept  in  it.  From  time  to 
time  during  the  day  Mrs.  Sieppe  appeared  on  the  back  doorstep, 
crying  shrilly,  "Hoop,  hoop!"  She  threw  lumps  of  coal  at  him, 
waking  him  to  his  work. 

They  were  all  very  tired  and  went  to  bed  early.  Affer  great 
discussion  it  was  decided  that  Marcus  would  sleep  upon  the  lounge 
in  the  front  parlor.  Trina  would  sleep  with  August,  giving  up  her 
room  to  McTeague.  Selina  went  to  her  home,  a  block  or  so  above 
the  Sieppes'.  At  nine  o'clock  Mr.  Sieppe  showed  McTeague  to  his 
room  and  left  him  to  himself  with  a  newly  lighted  candle. 

For  a  long  time  after  Mr.  Sieppe  had  gone  McTeague  stood 
motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his  elbows  pressed  close  to 
his  sides,  looking  obliquely  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  hardly 
dared  to  move.  .  He  was  in  Trina's  room. 

It  was  an  ordinary  little  room.  A  clean  white  matting  was  on 
the  floor;  gray  paper,  spotted  with  pink  and  green  flowers,  covered 
the  walls.  In  one  corner,  under  a  white  netting,  was  a  little  bed, 
the  woodwork  gayly  painted  w;th  knots  of  bright  flowers.  Near 
it,  against  the  wall,  was  a  black  walnut  bureau.  A  work-table  with 
spiral  legs  stood  by  the  window,  which  was  hung  with  a  green  and 
gold  window  curtain.  Opposite  the  window  the  closet  door  stood 


McTeague  51 

ajar,  while  in  the  corner  across  from  the  bed  was  a  tiny  washstand 
with  two  clean  towels. 

And  that  was  all.  But  it  was  Trina's  room.  McTeague  was  in 
his  lady's  bower;  it  seemed  to  him  a  little  nest,  intimate,  discreet. 
He  felt  hideously  out  of  place.  He  was  an  intruder;  he,  with  his 
enormous  feet,  his  colossal  bones,  his  crude,  brutal  gestures.  The 
mere  weight  of  his  limbs,  he  was  sure,  would  crush  the  little  bed 
stead  like  an  eggshell. 

Then,  as  this  first  sensation  wore  off,  he  began  to  feel  the  charm 
of  the  little  chamber.  It  was  as  though  Trina  were  close  by,  but 
invisible.  McTeague  felt  all  the  delight  of  her  presence  without 
the  embarrassment  that  usually  accompanied  it.  He  was  near  to 
her — nearer  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  saw  into  her  daily 
life,  her  little  ways  and  manners,  her  habits,  her  very  thoughts. 
And  was  there  not  in  the  air  of  that  room  a  certain  faint  perfume 
that  he  knew,  that  recalled  her  to  his  mind  with  marvelous  vivid 
ness? 

As  he  put  the  candle  down  upon  the  bureau  he  saw  her  hairbrush 
lying  there.  Instantly  he  picked  it  up,  and,  without  knowing  why, 
held  it  to  his  face.  With  what  a  delicious  odor  was  it  redolent! 
That  heavy,  enervating  odor  of  her  hair — her  wonderful,  royal  hair ! 
The  smell  of  that  little  hairbrush  was  talismanic.  He  had  but  to 
close  his  eyes  to  see  her  as  distinctly  as  in  a  mirror.  He  saw  her 
tiny,  round  figure,  dressed  all  in  black — for,  curiously  enough,  it 
was  his  very  first  impression  of  Trina  that  came  back  to  him  now — 
not  the  Trina  of  the  later  occasions,  not  the  Trina  of  the  blue  cloth 
skirt  and  white  sailor.  He  saw  her  as  he  had  seen  her  the  day 
that  Marcus  had  introduced  them:  saw  her  pale,  round  face;  her 
narrow,  half-open  eyes,  blue  like  the  eyes  of  a  baby ;  her  tiny,  pale 
ears,  suggestive  of  anaemia;  the  freckles  across  the  bridge  of  her 
nose ;  her  pale  lips ;  the  tiara  of  royal  black  hair ;  and,  above  all,  the 
delicious  poise  of  the  head,  tipped  back  as  though  by  the  weight  of 
all  that  hair — the  poise  that  thrust  out  her  chin  a  little,  with  the 
movement  that  was  so  confiding,  so  innocent,  so  nearly  infantile. 

McTeague  went  softly  about  the  room  from  one  object  to  an 
other,  beholding  Trina  in  everything  he  touched  or  looked  at.  He 
came  at  last  to  the  closet  door.  It  was  ajar.  He  opened  it  wide, 
and  paused  upon  the  threshold. 

Trina's  clothes  were  hanging  there — skirts  and  waists,  jackets, 
and  stiff  white  petticoats.  What  a  vision?  For  an  instant  Mc 
Teague  caught  his  breath,  spellbound.  If  he  had  suddenly  discov- 


p  McTeague 

ered  Trina  herself  there,  smiling  at  him,  holding  out  her  hands,  he 
could  hardly  have  been  more  overcome.  Instantly  he  recognized  the 
black  dress  she  had  worn  on  that  famous  first  day.  There  it  was, 
the  little  jacket  she  had  carried  over  her  arm  the  day  he  had  terri 
fied  her  with  his  blundering  declaration,  and  still  others,  and  others 

a  whole  group  of  Trinas  faced  him  there.    He  went  further  into 

the  closet,  touching  the  clothes  gingerly,  stroking  them  softly  with 
his  huge  leathern  palms.  As  he  stirred  them  a  delicate  perfume 
disengaged  itself  from  the  folds.  Ah,  that  exquisite  feminine  odor ! 
It  was  not  only  her  hair  now,  it  was  Trina  herself — her  mouth,  her 
hands,  her  neck;  the  indescribably  sweet,  fleshly  aroma  that  was  a 
part  of  her,  pure  and  clean,  and  redolent  of  youth  and  freshness. 
All  at  once,  seized  with  an  unreasoned  impulse,  McTeague  opened 
his  huge  arms  and  gathered  the  little  garments  close  to  him,  plung 
ing  his  face  deep  among  them,  savoring  their  delicious  odor  with 
long  breaths  of  luxury  and  supreme  content. 


The  picnic  at  Schuetzen  Park  decided  matters.  McTeague  be 
gan  to  call  on  Trina  regularly  Sunday  and  Wednesday  afternoons. 
He  took  Marcus  Schouler's  place.  Sometimes  Marcus  accom 
panied  him,  but  it  was  geerally  to  meet  Selina  by  appointment  at 
the  Sieppes'  house. 

But  Marcus  made  the  most  of  his  renunciation  of  his  cousin. 
He  remembered  his  pose  from  time  to  time.  He  made  McTeague 
unhappy  and  bewildered  by  wringing  his  hands,  by  venting  sighs  that 
seemed  to  tear  his  heart  out,  or  by  giving  evidences  of  an  infinite 
melancholy.  "What  is  my  life !"  he  would  exclaim.  "What  is  left 
for  me?  Nothing,  by  damn!"  And  when  McTeague  would  at 
tempt  remonstrance,  he  would  cry:  "Never  mind,  old  man.  Never 
mind  me.  Go,  be  happy.  I  forgive  you." 

Forgive  what?  McTeague  was  all  at  sea,  was  harassed  with 
the  thought  of  some  shadowy,  irreparable  injury  he  had  done  his 
friend. 

"Oh,  don't  think  of  me !"  Marcus  would  exclaim  at  other  times, 
even  when  Trina  was  by.  "Don't  think  of  me ;  I  don't  count  any 
more.  I  ain't  in  it."  Marcus  seemed  to  take  great  pleasure  in 
contemplating  the  wreck  of  his 'life.  There  is  no  doubt  he  enjoyed 
himself  hugely  during  these  days. 

The  Sieppes  were  at  first  puzzled  as  well  over  this  change  of 
front. 


McTeague  53 

"Trina  has  den  a  new  younge  man,"  cried  Mr.  Sieppe.  "First 
Schouler,  now  der  doktor,  eh  ?  What  die  tevil,  I  say !" 

Weeks  passed,  February  went,  March  came  in  very  rainy,  put 
ting  a  stop  to  all  their  picnics  and  Sunday  excursions. 

One  Wednesday  afternoon  in  the  second  week  in  March  Mc 
Teague  came  over  to  call  on  Trina,  bringing  his  concertina  with  him, 
as  was  his  custom  nowadays.  As  he  got  off  the  train  at  the  station 
he  was  surprised  to  find  Trina  waiting  for  him. 

"This  is  the  first  day  it  hasn't  rained  in  weeks,"  she  explained, 
"an'  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  walk." 

"Sure,  sure,"  assented  McTeague. 

B  Street  station  was  nothing  more  than  a  little  shed.  There  was 
no  ticket  office,  nothing  but  a  couple  of  whittled  and  carven  benches. 
It  was  built  close  to  the  railroad  tracks,  just  across  which  was  the 
dirty,  muddy  shore  of  San  Francisco  Bay.  About  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  back  from  the  station  was  the  edge  of  the  town  of  Oakland. 
Between  the  station  and  the  first  houses  of  the  town  lay  immense 
salt  flats,  here  and  there  broken  by  winding  streams  of  black  water. 
They  were  covered  with  a  growth  of  wiry  grass,  strangely  dis 
colored  in  places  by  enormous  stains  of  orange  yellow. 

Near  the  station  a  bit  of  fence  painted  with  a  cigar  advertise 
ment  reelejj  over  into  the  mud,  while  under  its  lee  lay  an  aban- 
dond  gravel  wagon  with  dished  wheels.  The  station  was  connected 
with  the  town  by  the  extension  of  B  Street,  which  struck  across  the 
flats  geometrically  straight,  a  file  of  tall  poles  with  intervening  wires 
marching  along  with  it.  At  the  station  these  were  headed  by  an  iron 
electric-light  pole  that,  with  its  supports  and  outriggers,  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  an  immense  grasshopper  on  its  hind  legs. 

Across  the  flats,  at  the  fringe  of  the  town,  were  the  dump  heaps, 
the  figures  of  a  few  Chinese  rag-pickers  moving  over  them.  Far  to 
the  left  the  view  was  shut  off  by  the  immense  red-brown  drum  of 
the  gas-works;  to  the  right  it  was  bounded  by  the  chimneys  and 
workshops  of  an  iron  foundry. 

Across  the  railroad  tracks,  to  seaward,  one  saw  the  long  stretch 
of  black  mud  bank  left  bare  by  the  tide,  which  was  far  out,  nearly  half 
a  mile.  Clouds  of  sea-gulls  were  forever  rising  and  settling  upon 
this  mud  bank;  a  wrecked  and  abandoned  wharf  crawled  over  it 
on  tottering  legs;  close  in  an  old  sailboat  lay  canted  on  her  bilge. 

But  further  on,  across  the  yellow  waters  of  the  bay,  beyond  Goat 
Island,  lay  San  Francisco,  a  blue  line  of  hills,  rugged  with  roofs 
and  spires.  Far  to  the  westward  opened  the  Golden  Gate,  a  bleak 


54  McTeague 

cutting  in  the  sand-hills,  through  which  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
open  Pacific. 

The  station  at  B  Street  was  solitary;  no  trains  passed  at  this 
hour ;  except  the  distant  rag-pickers,  not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  The 
wind  blew  strong,  carrying  with  it  the  mingled  smell  of  salt,  of  tar, 
of  dead  seaweed,  and  of  bilge.  The  sky  hung  low  and  brown;  at 
long  intervals  a  few  drops  of  rain  fell. 

Near  the  station  Trina  and  McTeague  sat  on  the  roadbed  of  the 
tracks,  at  the  edge  of  the  mud  bank,  making  the  most  out  of 
landscape,  enjoying  the  open  air,  the  salt  marshes,  and  the  sight  of 
the  distant  water.  From  time  to  time  McTeague  played  his  six 
mournful  airs  upon  his  concertina. 

After  a  while  they  began  walking  up  and  down  the  tracks,  Mc 
Teague  talking  about  his  profession,  Trina  listening,  very  interested 
and  absorbed,  trying  to  understand. 

"For  pulling  the  roots  of  the  upper  molars  we  use  the  cow- 
horn  forceps,"  continued  the  dentist,  monotonously.  "We  get  tht 
inside  beak  over  the  palatal  roots  and  the  cow-horn  beak  over  the 
buccal  roots — that's  the  roots  on  the  outside,  you  see.  Then  we 
close  the  forceps,  and  that  breaks  right  through  the  alveolus — that's 
the  part  of  the  socket  in  the  jaw,  you  understand." 

At  another  moment  he  told  her  of  his  one  unsatisfied  desire. 
/  "Some  day  I'm  going  to  have  a  big  gilded  tooth  outside  my  win 
dow  for  a  sign.     Those  big  gold  teetlT  are  beautiful,  beautiful — 
only  they  cost  so  much,  I  can't  afford  one  just  now." 

"Oh,  it's  raining,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Trina,  holding  out  her 
palm.  They  turned  back  and  reached  the  station  in  a  drizzle.  The 
afternoon  was  closing  in  dark  and  rainy.  The  tide  was  coming 
back,  talking  and  lapping  for  miles  along  the  mud  bank.  Far  off 
across  the  flats,  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  an  electric  car  went  by, 
stringing  out  a  long  row  of  diamond  sparks  on  the  overhead  wires. 

"Say,  Miss  Trina,"  said  McTeague,  after  a  while,  "what's  the 
good  of  waiting  any  longer?  Why  can't  us  two  get  married?" 

Trina  still  shook  her  head,  saying  "No"  instinctively,  in  spite  of 
herself. 

"Why  not?"  persisted  McTeague.  "Don't  you  like  me  well 
enough?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  why  not?" 

"Because." 

"Ah,  come  on,"  he  said,  but  Trina  still  shook  her  head. 


McTeague  55 

"Ah,  come  on,"  urged  McTeague.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
else  to  say,  repeating  the  same  phrase  over  and  over  again  to  all 
her  refusals. 

"Ah,  come  on !    Ah,  come  on !" 

Suddenly  he  took  her  in  his  enormous  arms,  crushing  down  her 
struggle  with  his  immense  strength.     Then  Trina  gave  up,  all  in    | 
an  instant,  turning  her  head  to  his.    They  kissed  each  other,  grossly,    / 
full  in  the  mouth. 

A  roar  and  a  jarring  of  the  earth  suddenly  grew  near  and 
passed  them  in  a  reek  of  steam  and  hot  air.  It  was  the  Overland, 
with  its  flaming  headlight,  on  its  way  across  the  continent. 

The  passage  of  the  train  startled  them  both.     Trina  struggled 
to  free  herself  from  McTeague.    "Oh,  please!  please!"  she  pleaded, 
on  the  point  of  tears.     McTeague  released  her,  but  in  that  moment . 
a  slight,  a  barely  perceptible,  revulsion  of  feeling  had  taken  place  j 
in  him.     The  instant  that  Trina  gave  up,  the  instant  she  allowed  ' 
him  to  kiss  her,  he  thought  less  of  her.     She  was  not  so  desirable, 
after  all.     But  this  reaction  was  so  faint,  so  subtle,  so  intangible, 
that  in  another  moment  he  had  doubted  its  occurrence.     Yet  after 
ward  it  returned.    Was  there  not  something  gone  from  Trina  now? 
Was  he  not  disappointed  in  her  for  doing  that  very  thing  for  which 
he  had  longed?    Was  Trina  the  submissive,  the  compliant,  the  at 
tainable,  just  the  same,  just  as  delicate  and  adorable  as  Trina  the 
inaccessible?     Perhaps  he  dimly  saw  that  this  must  be  so,  that-iti 
belonged  to  the  changeless  order  of  things — the  man  desiring  thej 
woman  only  for  what  she  withholds ;  the  woman  worshiping  the  man 
for  that  which  she  yields  up  to  him.    With  each  concession  gainedjW 
the  man's  desire  cools;  with  every  surrender  made  the  woman's/ r 
adoration  increases.    But  why  should  it  be  so? 

Trina  wrenched  herself  free  and  drew  back  from  McTeague,  her 
little  chin  quivering;  her  face,  even  to  the  lobes  of  her  pale  ears, 
flushed  scarlet ;  her  narrow  blue  eyes  brimming.  Suddenly  she  put 
her  head  between  her  hands  and  began  to  sob. 

"Say,  say,  Miss  Trina,  listen — listen  here,  Miss  Trina,"  cried 
McTeague,  coming  forward  a  step. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  gasped,  shrinking.  "I  must  go  home,"  she 
cried,  springing  to  her  feet.  "It's  late.  I  must.  I  must.  Don't 
come  with  me,  please.  Oh,  I'm  so — so" — she  could  not  find  any 
words.  "Let  me  go  alone,"  she  went  on.  "You  may — you  come 
Sunday.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  said  McTeague,  his  head  in  a  whirl  at  this  sudden, 


5  6  McTeague 

unaccountable  change.  "Can't  I  kiss  you  again?"  But  Trina  was 
firm  now.  When  it  came  to  his  pleading — a  mere  matter  of  words 
— she  was  strong  enough. 

"No,  no,  you  must  not!"  she  exclaimed,  with  energy.  She 
was  gone  in  another  instant.  The  dentist,  stunned,  bewildered, 
gazed  stupidly  after  her  as  she  ran  up  the  extension  of  B  Street 
through  the  rain. 

But  suddenly  a  great  joy  took  possession  of  him.  He  had  won 
her.  Trina  was  to  be  for  him,  after  all.  An  enormous  smile  dis 
tended  his  thick  lips ;  his  eyes  grew  wide,  and  flashed ;  and  he  drew 
his  breath  quickly,  striking  his  mallet-like  fist  upon  his  knee,  and 
exclaiming  under  his  breath: 

"I  got  her,  by  God !  I  got  her,  by  God !"  At  the  same  time  he 
thought  better  of  himself;  his  self-respect  increased  enormously. 
The  man  that  could  win  Trina  Sieppe  was^a  man  of  extraordinary 
ability. 

Trina  burst  in  upon  her  mother  while  the  latter  was  setting  a 
mousetrap  in  the  kitchen. 

"Oh,  mamma!" 

"Eh,  Trina?    Ach,  what  has  happun?" 

Trina  told  her  in  a  breath. 

"Son  soon?"  was  Mrs.  Sieppe's  first  comment.  "Eh,  well, 
what  you  cry  for,  then?" 

"I  don't  know,"  wailed  Trina,  plucking  at  the  end  of  her  hand 
kerchief. 

"You  loaf  der  younge  doktor?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  what  for  you  kiss  him  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don'  know,  you  don'  know  ?  Where  haf  your  sensus  gone, 
Trina?  You  kiss  der  doktor.  You  cry,  and  you  don'  know.  Is  ut 
Marcus  den?" 

"No,  it's  not  Cousin  Mark." 

"Den  ut  must  be  der  doktor." 
vTrina  made  no  answer. 


,     t     V H      1-»I  1 

^"1— I  guess  so." 
"You  loaf  him?" 
"I  don't  know." 


-i-    viuu  L    ruiuw. 

•  Mrs.  Sieppe  set  down  the  ihousetrap  with  such  violence  that  it 
"sprung  with  a  sharp  snap. 

17 


McTeague  57 


VI 

No,  Trina,  did  not  know.  "Do  I  love  him?  Do  I  love  him?" 
A  thousand  times  she  put  the  question  to  herself  during  the  next 
two  or  three  days.  At  night  she  hardly  slept,  but  lay  broad  awake 
for  hours  in  her  little,  gayly  painted  bed,  with  its  white  netting, 
torturing  herself  with  doubts  and  questions.  At  times  she  remem 
bered  the  scene  in  the  station  with  a  veritable  agony  of  shame,  and 
at  other  times  she  was  ashamed  to  recall  it  with  a  thrill  of  joy. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  sudden,  more  unexpected,  than  that 
surrender  of  herself.  For  over  a  year  she  had  thought  that  Marcus 
would  some  day  be  her  husband.  They  would  be  married,  she  sup 
posed,  some  time  in  the  future,  she  did  not  know  exactly  when; 
the  matter  did  not  take  definite  shape  in  her  mind.  She  liked 
Cousin  Mark  very  well.  And  then  suddenly  this  cross-current  had 
set  in ;  this  blond  giant  had  appeared,  this  huge,  stolid  fellow,  with 
his  immense,  crude  strength.  She  had  not  loved  him  at  first,  that 
was  certain.  The  day  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  his  "Parlors"  she 
had  only  been  terrified.  If  he  had  confined  himself  to  merely ^j, 
speaking,  as  did  Marcus,  to  pleading  with  her,  to  wooing  her  at  a 
distance,  forestalling  her  wishes,  showing  her  little  attentions, 
sending  her  boxes  of  candy,  she  could  .have  easily  withstood  him. 
But  he  had  only  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  crush  down  her  struggle 
with  his  enormous  strength,  to  subdue  her,  conquer  her  by  sheer 
brute  force,  and  she  gave  up  in  an  instant. 

But  why — why  had  she  done  so?  Why  did  she  feel  the  desire, 
the  necessity  of  being  conquered  by  a  superior  strength?  Why  did 
it  please  her?  Why  had  it  suddenly  thrilled  her  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  quick,  tejrifyjng^gust  of  passion,  the  like  of  which  she  had 
never  known?  Never  at  his  bestliad  Marcus  made  her  feel  like 
that,  and  yet  she  had  always  thought  she  cared  for  Cousin  Mark 
more  than  for  any  one  else. 

When  McTeague  had  all  at  once  caught  her  in  his  huge  arms, 
something  had  leaped  to  life  in  her — something  that  had  hitherto 
lain  dormant,  something  strong  and  overpowering.  It  frightened 
her  now  as  she  thought  of  it,  fthis  second'seEL that  had  wakened 
within  her,  and  that  shouted  and  clamored  for  recognition  ?  ""  Ami 


A 

"V 


j8  McTeague 

yet,  was  it  to  be  feared  ?  Was  it  something  to  be  ashamed  of  ?  Was 
it  not,  after  all,  natural,  clean,  spontaneous?  Trina  knew  that  she 
was  a  pure  girl;  knew  that  this  sudden  commotion  within  hei 
carried  with  it  no  suggestion  of  vice. 

Dimly,  as  figures  seen  in  a  waking  dream,  these  ideas  floated 
through  Trina's  mind.  It  was  quite  beyond  her  to  realize  them 
clearly;  she  could  not  know  what  they  meant.  Until  that  rainy 
day  by  the  shore  of  the  bay  Trina  had  lived  her  life  with  as  little 
self-consciousness  as  a  tree.  She  was  frank,  straightforward,  a 
healthy,  natural  human  being,  without  sex  as  yet.  She  was  almost 
like  a  boy.  At  once  there  hacl  -h^eri  a~niysterioils  disturbance.  The 
woman  within  her  suddenly  awoke.v 

Did  she  love  McTeague?  Difficult  question.  Did  she  choose 
him  for  better  or  for  worse,  deliberately,  of  her  own  free  will,  or 
was  Trina  herself  allowed  even  a  choice  in  the  taking  of  that  step 
that  was  to  make  or  mar  her  life?  The  Woman  is  awakened,  and, 
starting  from  her  sleep,  catches  blindly  at  what  first  her  newly 
opened  eyes  light  upon.  It  is  a  spell,  a  witchery,  ruled  by  chance 
alone,  inexplicable  —  a  fairy  queen  enamored  of  a  clown  with  ass's 
ears. 

McTeague  had  awakened  the  Woman,  and,  whether  she  would 
or  no,  she  was  his  now  irrevocably  ;  struggle  against  it  as  she  would, 
she  belonged  to  him,  body  and  soul,  for  lifejor  for  death.  She  had 
not  sought  it,  she  had  not  desired  it.  The  spell  was  laid  upon  her. 
Was  it  a  blessing?  Was  it  a  curse?  It  was  all  one;  she  was  his, 
indissolubly,  for  evil  or  for  good. 

And  he?  The  very  act  of  submission  that  bound  the  woman  to 
him  forever  had  made  her  seem  less  desirable  in  his  eyes.  Their 
undoing")  had  already  begun.  Yet  neither  of  them  was  to  blame. 
From  the  first  they  had  not  sought  each,  other.  Chance  had  brought 
b  them  face  to  face,  and  mysterious  instincts  as  ungovernable  as  the 
,  winds  of  heaven  were  at  work  knitting  their  lives  together.  Neither 
of  them  had  asked  that  this  thing  should  be  —  that  their  destinies, 
their  very  souls,  should  be  the  sport  of  chance.  If  they  could  have 
known,  they  would  have  shunned  the  fearful  risk.  But  they  were 
allowed  no  voice  in  the  matter.  Why  should  it  all  be? 

It  had  been  on  a  Wednesday  that  the  scene  in  the  B  Street  sta 
tion  had  taken  place.  Throughout  the  rest  of  the  week,  at  every 
hour  of  the  day,  Trina  asked  herself  the  same  question  :  "Do  I  love 
him?  Do  I  really  love  him?  Is  this  what  love  is  like?"  As  she 
recalled  McTeague  —  recalled  his  huge,  square-cut  head,  his  salient 


, 
; 


McTeague  59 

jaw,  his  shock  of  yellow  hair,  his  heavy,  lumbering  body,  his  slow 
wits — she  found  little  to  admire  in  him  beyond  his  physical  strength, 
and  at  such  moments  she  shook  her  head  decisively.  "No,  surely 
she  did  not  love  him."  Sunday  afternoon,  however,  McTeague^ 
called.  Trina  had  prepared  a  little  speech  for  him.  She  was  to  tell 
him  that  she  did  not  know  what  had  been  the  matter  with  her  that 
Wednesday  afternoon;  that  she  had  acted  like  a  bad  girl;  that  she 
did  not  love  him  well  enough  to  marry  him;  that  she  had  told 
him  as  much  once  before. 

McTeague  saw  her  alone  in  the  little  front  parlor.  The  instant 
she  appeared  he  came  straight  toward  her.  She  saw  what  he  was 
bent  upon  doing.  "Wait  a  minute,"  she  cried,  putting  out  her 
hands.  "Wait.  You  don't  understand.  I  have  got  something  to 
say  to  you."  She  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the  wind.  McTeague 
put  aside  her  hands  with  a  single  gesture,  and  gripped  her  to  him 
in  a  bearlike  embrace  that  all  but  smothered  her.  Trina 
was  but  a  reed  before  that  giant  strength.  McTeague  turned 
her  face  to  his  and  kissed  her  again  upon  the  mouth.  Where  was 
all  Trina's  resolve  then?  Where  was  her  carefully  prepared  little 
speech?  Where  was  all  her  hesitation  and  torturing  doubts  of  the 
last  few  days?  She  clasped  McTeague's  huge  red  neck  with  both 
her  slender  arms ;  she  raised  her  adorable  little  chin  and  kissed  him 
in  return,  exclaiming:  "Oh,  I  do  love  you!  I  do  love  you!" 
Never  afterward  were  the  two  so  happ^  as  at  that  moment. 

A  little  later  in  that  same  week,  when  Marcus  and  McTeague 
were  taking  lunch  at  the  car  conductors'  coffee-joint,  the  former 
suddenly  exclaimed : 

"Say,  Mac,  now  that  you've  got  Trina,  you  ought  to  do  more  for 
her.  By  damn !  you  ought  to,  for  a  fact.  Why  don't  you  take  her 
out  somewhere — to  the  theatre,  or  somewhere?  You  ain't  on  to 
your  job." 

Naturally,  McTeague  had  told  Marcus  of  his  success  with  Trina. 
Marcus  had  taken  on  a  grand  air. 

"You've  got  her,  have  you?  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,  old  man.  I 
am,  for  a  fact.  I  know  you'll  be  happy  with  her.  I  know  how  I 
would  have  been.  I  forgive  you;_.yesr  I  -  forgive  .you,  freely." 

McTeague  had  not  thought  of  taking  Trina  to  the  theatre. 

"You  think  I  ought  to,  Mark  ?"  he  inquired,  hesitating.  Marcus 
answered,  with  his  mouth  full  of  suet  pudding: 

"Why,  of  course.     That's  the  proper  caper." 

"Well— well,  that's  so.    The  theatre— that's  the  word." 


60  McTeague 

"Take  her  to  the  variety  show  at  the  Orpheum.  There's  a  good 
show  there  this  week;  you'll  have  to  take  Mrs.  Sieppe,  too,  of 
course,"  he  added.  Marcus  was  not  sure  of  himself  as  regarded 
certain  proprieties,  nor,  for  that  matter,  were  any  of  the  people  of 
the  little  world  of  Polk  Street.  The  shop  girls,  the  plumbers'  ap 
prentices,  the  small  tradespeople,  and  their  like,  whose  social  posi- 
"tion  was  not  clearly  denned,  could  never  be  sure  how  far  they  could 
go  and  yet  preserve  their  "respectability."  When  they  wished  to  be 
"proper,"  they  invariably  overdid  the  thing.  It  was  not  as  if  they 
belonged  to  the  "tough"  element,  who  had  no  appearances  to  keep 
up.  Polk  Street  rubbed  elbows  with  the  "avenue"  one  block  above. 
There  were  certain  limits  which  its  dwellers  could  not  overstep ;  but 
unfortunately  for  them,  these  limits  were  poorly  defined.  They 
could  never  be  sure  of  themselves.  At  an  unguarded  moment  they 
might  be  taken  for  "toughs,"  so  they  generally  erred  in  the  other 
direction,  and  were  absurdly  formal.  No  people  have  a  keener  eye 
for  the  amenities  than  those  whose  social  position  is  not  assured. 

"Oh,  sure,*  you'll  have  to  take  her  mother,"  insisted  Marcus. 
"It  wouldn't  be  the  proper  racket  if  you  didn't." 

McTeague  undertook  the  affair.  It  was  an  ordeal.  Never  in 
his  life  had  he  been  so  perturbed,  so  horribly  anxious.  He  called 
upon  Trina  the  following  Wednesday  and  made  arrangements.  Mrs. 
Sieppe  asked  if  little  August  might  be  included.  It  would  console 
him  for  the  loss  of  his  steamboat.  S*  V- 

"Sure,  sure/'  said  McTeague.  "August  too — everybody,"  he 
added,  vaguely. 

"We  always  have  to  leave  so  early,"  complained  Trina,  "in  order 
to  catch  the  last  boat.  Just  when  it's  becoming  interesting." 

At  this  McTeague,  acting  upon  a  suggestion  of  Marcus  Schoul- 
er's,  insisted  they  should  stay  at  the  flat  overnight.  Marcus  and  the 
dentist  would  give  up  their  rooms  to  them  and  sleep  at  the  dog 
hospital.  There  was  a  bed  there  in  the  sick  ward  that  old  Grannis 
sometimes  occupied  when  a  bad  case  needed  watching.  All  at  once 
McTeague  had  an  idea,  a  veritable  inspiration. 

"And  we'll— we'll— we'll  have— what's  the  matter  with  having 
something  to  eat  afterward  in  my  "Parlors'?" 

"Vairy  goot,"  commented  Mrs.  Sieppe.  "Bier,  eh?  And  some 
'damales." 

"Oh,  I  love  tamales!"  exclaimed  Trina,  clasping  her  hands. 

McTeague  returned  to  the  city,  rehearsing  his  instructions  over 
and  over.  The  theatre  party  began  to  assume  tremendous  proper- 


McTeague  61 

tions.  First  of  all,  he  was  to  get  the  seats,  the  third  or  fourth  row 
from  the  front,  on  the  left-hand  side,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  hearing 
of  the  drums  in  the  orchestra;  he  must  make  arrangements  about 
the  rooms  with  Marcus,  must  get  in  the  beer,  but  not  the  tamales ; 
must  buy  for  himself  a  white  lawn  tie — so  Marcus  directed;  must 
look  to  it  that  Maria  Macapa  put  his  room  in  perfect  order;  and, 
finally,  must  meet  the  Sieppes  at  the  ferry  slip  at  half-past  seven  the 
following  Monday  night. 

The  real  labor  of  the  affair  began  with  the  buying  of  the  tickets. 
At  the  theatre  McTeague  got  into  wrong  entrances ;  was  sent  from 
one  wicket  to  another ;  was  bewildered,  confused ;  misunderstood 
directions;  was  at  one  moment  suddenly  convinced  that  he  had  not 
enough  money  with  him,  and  started  to  return  home.  Finally  he 
found  himself  at  the  box-office  wicket. 

"Is  it  here  you  buy  your  seats?" 

"How  many?" 

"Is  it  here—" 

"What  night  do  you  want  'em?    Yes,  sir,  here's  the  place." 

McTeague  gravely  delivered  himself  of  the  formula  he  had  been 
reciting  for  the  last  dozen  hours. 

"I  want  four  seats  for  Monday  night  in  the  fourth  row  from 
the  front,  and  on  the  right-hand  side." 

"Right  hand  as  you  face  the  house  or  as  you  face  the  stage?" 
McTeague  was  dumfounded. 

"I  want  to  be  on  the  right-hand  side,"  he  insisted,  stolidly; 
adding,  "in  order  to  be  away  from  the  drums." 

"Well,  the  drums  are  on  the  right  of  the  orchestra  as  you  face 
the  stage,"  shouted  the  other  impatiently ;  "you  want  to  the  left,  then, 
as  you  face  the  house." 

"I  want  to  be  on  the  right-hand  side,"  persisted  the  dentist. 

Without  a  word  the  seller  threw  out  four  tickets  with  a  mag 
nificent,  supercilious  gesture. 

"There's  four  seats  on  the  right-hand  side,  then,  and  you're 
right  up  against  the  drums." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  near  the  drums/'  protested  McTeague, 
beginning  to  perspire. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  want  at  all?"  said  the  ticket  seller  with 
calmness,  thrusting  his  head  at  McTeague.  The  dentist  knew  that 
he  had  hurt  this  young  man's  feelings. 

"I  want — I  want,"  he  stammered.  The  seller  slammed  -down 
a  plan  of  the  house  in  front  of  him  and  began  to  explain  excit- 


62  McTeague 

edly.      It    was    the    one    thing    lacking    to    complete    McTeague 's 
confusion. 

"There  are  your  seats,"  finished  the  seller,  shoving  the  tickets 
into  McTeague's  hands.  "They  are  the  fourth  row  from  the  front, 
and  away  from  the  drums.  Now  are  you  satisfied?" 

"Are  they  on  the  right-hand  side?  I  want  on  the  right — no,  I 
want  on  the  left.  I  want — I  don'  know,  I  don'  know." 

The    seller    roared.      McTeague    moved    slowly    away,    gazing 
stupidly  at  the  blue  slips  of  pasteboard.     Two  girls  took  his  place 
at  the  wicket.     In  another  moment  McTeague  came  back,  peering 
over  the  girls'  shoulders  and  calling  to  the  seller : 
"Are  these  for  Monday  night?" 

The  other  disdained  reply.  McTeague  retreated  again  timidly, 
thrusting  the  tickets  into  his  immense  wallet.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  thoughtful  on  the  steps  of  the  entrance.  Then  all  at  once  he 
became  enraged,  he  did  not  know  exactly  why;  somehow  he  felt 
himself  slighted.  Once  more  he  came  back  to  the  wicket. 

"You  can't  make  small  of  me,"  he  shouted  over  the  girls'  shoul 
ders  ;  "you — you  can't  make  small  of  me.  I'll  thump  you  in  the  head, 
you  little— you  little— you  little— little — little  pup."  The  ticket 
seller  shrugged  his  shoulders  wearily.  "A  dollar  and  a  half,"  he 
said  to  the  two  girls. 

McTeague  glared  at  him  and  breathed  loudly.  Finally  he  de 
cided  to  let  the  matter  drop.  He  moved  away,  but  on  the  steps  was 
once  more  seized  with  a  sense  of  injury  and  outraged  dignity. 

"You  can't  make  small  of  me,"  he  called  back  a  last  time,  wag 
ging  his  head  and  shaking  his  fist.  "I  will — I  will — I  will — yes,  I 
will."  He  went  off  muttering. 

At  last  Monday  night  came.  McTeague  met  the  Sieppes  at  the 
ferry,  dressed  in  a  black  Prince  Albert  coat  and  his  best  slate-blue 
trousers,  and  wearing  the  made-up  lawn  necktie  that  Marcus  had 
selected  for  him.  Trina  was  very  pretty  in  the  black  dress  that 
McTeague  knew  so  well.  She  wore  a  pair  of  new  gloves.  Mrs. 
Sieppe  had  on  lisle-thread  mits,  and  carried  two  bananas  and  an 
orange  in  a  net  reticule.  "For  Owgooste,"  she  confided  to  him. 
Owgooste  was  in  a  Fauntleroy  "costume"  very  much  too  small  for 
him.  Already  he  had  been  crying. 

"Woult  you  pelief,  Doktor,  dot  bube  has  torn  his  stockun  al- 
reatty  ?  Walk  in  der  front,  you ;  stop  cryun.  Where  is  dot  berlice- 
man?" 

At  the  door  of  the  theatre  McTeague  was  suddenly  seized  with  a 


McTeague  63 

panic  terror.  He  had  lost  the  tickets.  He  tore  through  his 
pockets,  ransacked  his  wallet.  They  were  nowhere  to  be  found.  All 
at  once  he  remembered,  and  with  a  gasp  of  relief  removed  his  hat 
and  took  them  out  from  beneath  the  sweatband. 

The  party  entered  and  took  their  places.  It  was  absurdly  early. 
The  lights  were  all  darkened,  the  ushers  stood  under  the  galleries 
in  groups,  the  empty  auditorium  echoing  with  their  noisy  talk.  Oc 
casionally  a  waiter  with  his  tray  and  clean  white  apron  sauntered 
up  and  down  the  aisle.  Directly  in  front  of  them  was  the  great 
iron  curtain  of  the  stage,  painted  with  all  manner  of  advertise 
ments.  From  behind  this  came  a  noise  of  hammering  and  of  occa 
sional  loud  vo/ices. 

While  waiting  they  studied  their  programmes.  First  was  an 
overture  b.y  the  orchestra,  after  which  came  "The  Gleasons,  in  their 
mirth-moving  musical  farce,  entitled  'McMonnigal's  Courtship/ " 
This  w&s  to  be  followed  by  "The  Lamont  Sisters,  Winnie  and 
Violet,  serio-comiques  and  skirt  dancers."  And  after  this  came  a 
great  ^array  of  other  "artists"  and  "specialty  performers,"  musical 
wonders,  acrobats,  lightning  artists,  ventriloquists,  and  last  of  all, 
"The*  feature  of  the  evening,  the  crowning  scientific  achievement 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  kinetoscope."  McTeague  was  ex- 
cit^d,  dazzled.  In  five  years  he  had  not  been  twice  to  the  theatre. 
NOW  he  beheld  himself  inviting  his  "girl"  and  her  mother  to  ac- 
cd>mpany  him.  He  began  to  feel  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world, 
f^e  ordered  a  cigar. 

dl    Meanwhile  the  house  was  filling  up.     A  few  side  brackets  were 
iearned  on.    The  ushers  ran  up  and  down  the  aisles,  stubs  of  tickets 
Between  their  thumb  and  finger,  and  from  every  part  of  the  audi 
torium  could  be  heard  the  sharp  clap-clapping  of  the  seats  as  the 
"iishers  flipped  them  down.    A  buzz  of  talk  arose.    In  the  gallery  a 
j&treet  gamin  whistled  shrilly,  and  called  to  some  friends  on  the  other 
yfide  of  the  house. 

"Are  they  go-wun  to  begin  pretty  soon,  ma?"  whined  Owgooste 
°*for  the  fifth  or  sixth  time;  adding,  "Say,  ma,  can't  I  have  some 
°tandy  ?"  A  cadaverous  little  boy  had  appeared  in  their  aisle,  chant 
ing,  "Candies,  French  mixed  candies,  pop-corn,  peanuts  and  candy." 
The  orchestra  entered,  each  man  crawling  out  from  an  opening  under 
Sfche  stage,  hardly  larger  than  the  gate  of  a  rabbit  hutch.  At  every 
Instant  now  the  crowd  increased ;  there  were  but  few  seats  that  were 

not  taken. 
111      The    waiters    hurried    up    and    down    the    aisles,    their    trays 


64  McTeague 

laden  with  beer  glasses.    A  smell  of  cigar-smoke  filled  the  air,  and 
soon  a  faint  blue  haze  rose  from  all  corners  of  the  house. 

"Ma,  when  are  they  go-wun  to  begin?"  cried  Owgooste.  As  he 
spoke  the  iron  advertisement  curtain  rose,  disclosing  the  curtain 
proper  underneath.  This  latter  curtain  was  quice  an  affair.  Upon 
it  was  painted  a  wonderful  picture.  A  flight  of  marble  steps  led 
down  to  a  stream  of  water;  two  white  swans,  their  necks  arched 
like  the  capital  letter  S,  floated  about.  At  the  head  of  the  marble 
steps  were  two  vases  filled  with  red  and  yellow  flowers,  while  at  the 
foot  was  moored  a  gondola.  This  gondola  was  fall  of  red  velvet 
rugs  that  hung  over  the  side  and  trailed  in  the  water.  In  the  prow 
of  the  gondola  a  young  man  in  vermilion  tights  held  a  mandolin  in 
his  left  hand,  and  gave  his  right  to  a  girl  in  white  satin.  A  King 
Charles  spaniel,  dragging  a  leading-string  in  the  shape  of  a  huge 
pink  sash,  followed  the  girl.  Seven  scarlet  roses  were  scattered 
upon  the  two  lowest  steps,  and  eight  floated  in  the  water. . 

"Ain't  that  pretty,  Mac  ?"  exclaimed  Trina,  turning  to  the  dentist. 

"Ma,  ain't  they  go-wun  to  begin  now-wow  ?"  whined  Owgooste. 
Suddenly  the  lights  all  over  the  house  blazed  up.  "Ah !"  said  every 
body  all  at  once. 

"Ain't  ud  crowdut?"  murmured  Mrs.  Sieppe.  Every  seat  was 
taken ;  many  were  even  standing  up. 

"I  always  like  it  better  when  there  is  a  crowd,"  said  Trina.  She 
was  in  great  spirits  that  evening.  Her  round,  pale  face  was  posi 
tively  pink. 

The  orchestra  banged  away  at  the  overture,  suddenly  finis?  teg 
with  a  great  flourish  of  violins.     A  short  pause  followed.     Ttf-n 
the  orchestra  played  a  quick-step  strain,  and  the  curtain  rose  ^  : 
an  interior  furnished  with  two  red  chairs  and  a  green  sofa.    A  {  £ 
in  a  short  blue  dress  and  black  stockings  entered  in  a  hurry  ;  £ 
began  to  dust  the  two  chairs.     She  was  in  a  great  temper,  taJ     4 
very  fast,  disclaiming  against  the  "new  lodger."     It  appeared      £ 
this  latter  never  paid  his  rent;  that  he  was  given  to  late  h 
Then  she  came  down  to  the  footlights  and  began  to  sing  in         ? 
mendous  voice,  hoarse  and  flat,  almost  like  a  man's.     The  e        i- 

of  a  feeble  originality,  ran:  !" 

j 

"Oh,  how  happy  I  will  be, 
When  my  darling's  face  I'll  see; 
Oh,  tell  him  for  to  meet  me  in  the  moonlight, 
Down  where  the  golden  lilies  bloom."  * 


McTeague  65 

The  orchestra  played  the  tune  of  this  chorus  a  second  time, 
with  certain  variations,  while  the  girl  danced  to  it.  She  sidled  to 
one  side  of  the  stage  and  kicked,  then  sidled  to  the  other  and  kicked 
again.  As  she  finished  with  the  song,  a  man,  evidently  the  lodger  in 
question,  came  in.  Instantly  McTeague  exploded  in  a  roar  of 
laughter.  The  man  was  intoxicated,  his  hat  was  knocked  in,  one 
end  of  his  collar  was  unfastened  and  stuck  up  into  his  face,  his 
watch-chain  dangled  from  his  pocket,  and  a  yellow  satin  slipper 
was  tied  to  a  buttonhole  of  his  vest;  his  nose  was  vermilion,  one 
eye  was  black  and  blue.  After  a  short  dialogue  with  the  girl,  a 
third  actor  appeared.  He  was  dressed  like  a  little  boy,  the  girl's 
younger  brother.  He  wore  an  immense  turned-down  collar,  and 
was  continually  doing  handsprings  and  wonderful  back  somersaults. 
The  "act"  devolved  upon  these  three  people ;  the  lodger  making  love 
to  the  girl  in  the  short  blue  dress,  the  boy  playing  all  manner  of 
tricks  upon  him,  giving  him  tremendous  digs  in  the  ribs  or  slaps 
upon  the  back  that  made  him  cough,  pulling  chairs  from  under  him, 
running  on  all  fours  between  his  legs  and  upsetting  him,  knocking 
him  over  at  inopportune  moments.  Every  one  of  his  falls  was 
accentuated  by  a  bang  upon  the  bass  drum.  The  whole  humor  of 
the  "act"  seemed  to  consist  in  the  tripping  up  of  the  intoxicated 
lodger. 

This  horse-play  delighted  McTeague  beyond  measure.  He 
roared  and  shouted  every  time  the  lodger  went  down,  slapping  his 
knee,  wagging  his  head.  Owgooste  crowed  shrilly,  clapping  his 
hands  and  continually  asking,  "What  did  he  say,  ma?  What  did 
he  say?"  Mrs.  Sieppe  laughed  immoderately,  her  huge  fat  body 
shaking  like  a  mountain  of  jelly.  She  exclaimed  from  time  to  time, 
"Ach,  Gott,  dot  fool !"  Even  Trina  was  moved,  laughing  demurely, 
her  lips  closed,  putting  one  hand  with  its  new  glove  to  her  mouth. 

The  performance  went  on.  Now  it  was  the  "musical  marvels," 
two  men  extravagantly  made.  up.  .as  njgro_ minstrels,  with  immense 
shoes  and  plaid  vests.  They  seemed  to  be  able  to  wrestle  a  tune 
out  of  almost  anything — glass  bottles,  cigar-box  fiddles,  strings 
of  sleigh-bells,  even  graduated  brass  tubes,  which  they  rubbed  with 
resined  fingers.  McTeague  was  stupefied  with  admiration. 

"That's  what  you  call  musicians,"  he  announced  gravely.  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  played  upon  a  trombone.  Think  of  that !  Art  could 
go  no  further. 

The  acrobats  left  him  breathless.  They  were  dazzling  young 
men  with  beautifully  parted  hair,  continually  making  graceful  ges- 


66  McTeague 

tures  to  the  audience.  In  one  of  them  the  dentist  fancied  he  saw  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  boy  who  had  tormented  the  intoxicated 
lodger  and  who  had  turned  such  marvelous  somersaults.  Trina 
fcould  not  bear  to  watch  their  antics.  She  turned  away  her  head 
with  a  little  shudder.  "It  always  makes  me  sick,"  she  explained. 

The  beautiful  young  lady,  "The  Society  Contralto,"  in  evening 
t  dress,  who  sang  the  sentimental  songs,  and  carried  the  sheets  of 
music  at  which  she  never  looked,  pleased  McTeague  less.     Trina, 
however,  was  captivated.     She  grew  pensive  over 

"You  do  not  love  me — no; 
Bid  me  good-by  and  go;" 

and  split  her  new  gloves  in  her  enthusiasm  when  it  was  finished. 

"Don't  you  love  sad  music,  Mac?"  she  murmured. 

Then  came  the  two  comedians.  They  talked  with  fearful  ra 
pidity;  their  wit  and  repartee  seemed  inexhaustible. 

"As  7  was  going  down  the  street  yesterday — " 

"Ah !  as  you  were  going  down  the  street — all  right." 

"7  saw  a  girl  at  a  window — " 

"You  saw  a  girl  at  a  window — " 

"And  this  girl  she  was  a  corker — " 

"Ah!  as  you  were  going  down  the  street  yesterday  you  saw  a 
girl  at  a  window,  and  this  girl  she  was  a  corker.  All  right,  go  on.'* 

The  other  comedian  went  on.  The  joke  was  suddenly  evolved. 
A  certain  phrase  led  to  a  song,  which  was  sung  with  lightning  ra 
pidity,  each  performer  making  precisely  the  same  gestures  at  pre 
cisely  the  same  instant.  They  were  irresistible.  McTeague,  though 
he  caught  but  a  third  of  the  jokes,  could  have  listened  all  night. 

After  the  comedians  had  gone  out,  the  iron  advertisement  cur 
tain  was  let  down. 

"What  comes  now  ?"  said  McTeague,  bewildered. 

"It's  the  intermission  of  fifteen  minutes  now." 

The  musicians  disappeared  through  the  rabbit  hutch,  and  the 
audience  stirred  and  stretched  itself.  Most  of  the  young  men  left 
their  seats. 

During  this  intermission  McTeague  and  his  party  had  ''refresh 
ments."  Mrs.  Sieppe  and  Tripa  had  Queen  Charlottes,  McTeague 
drank  a  glass  of  beer,  Owgooste  ate  the  orange  and  one  of  the  ba 
nanas.  He  begged  for  a  glass  of  lemonade,  which  was  finally  given 
him. 


McTeague  67 

"Joost  to  geep  um  quiet,"  observed  Mrs.  Sieppe. 

The  quarter  of  an  hour  intermission  seemed  interminable  to 
McTeague.  He  continually  consulted  his  watch,  wondering  when 
the  musicians  would  come  back,  listening  anxiously  to  the  vague 
clamor  of  footsteps  and  voices  that  issued  confusedly  from  behind 
the  curtain  and  from  the  direction  of  the  wings.  Mrs.  Sieppe  pre 
tended  to  recognize  a  friend  two  rows  back  of  where  she  was 
sitting. 

"Ach !  sure  dot's  her,"  she  murmured  continually. 

The  performance  was  resumed.  A  lightning  artist  appeared, 
drawing  caricatures  and  portraits  with  incredible  swiftness.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  for  subjects  from  the  audience,  and  the 
names  of  prominent  men  were  shouted  to  him  from  the  gallery.  He 
drew  portraits  of  the  President,  of  Grant,  of  Washington,  of  Napo 
leon  Bonaparte,  of  Bismarck,  of  Garibaldi,  of  P.  ,T.  Barnum. 

And  so  the  evening  passed.  The  hall  grew  very  hot,  and  the 
smoke  of  innumerable  cigars  made  the  eyes  smart.  A  thick 
blue  mist  hung  low  over  the  heads  of  the  audience.  The  air 
was  full  of  varied  smells — the  smell  of  stale  cigars,  of  flat 
beer,  of  orange  peel,  of  gas,  of  sachet  powders,  and  of  cheap 
perfumery. 

One  "artist"  after  another  came  upon  the  stage.  McTeague's 
attention  never  wandered  for  a  minute.  Trina  and  her  mother  en 
joyed  themselves  hugely.  At  every  moment  they  made  comments 
to  one  another,  their  eyes  never  leaving  the  stage. 

"Ain't  dot  fool  joost  too  funny?" 

"That's  a  pretty  song.    Don't  you  like  that  kind  of  a  song?" 

"Wonderful!  It's  wonderful!  Yes,  yes,  wonderful!  That's 
the  word." 

Owgooste,  however,  lost  interest.  He  stood  up  in  his  place,  his 
back  to  the  stage,  chewing  a  piece  of  orange  peel  and  watching  a 
little  girl  in  her  father's  lap  across  the  aisle,  his  eyes  fixed  in  a 
glassy,  ox-like  stare.  But  he  was  uneasy.  He  danced  from  one  foot 
to  the  other,  and  at  intervals  appealed  in  hoarse  whispers  to  his 
mother,  who  disdained  an  answer. 

"Ma,  say,  ma-ah,"  he  whined,  abstractedly  chewing  his  orange 
peel,  staring  at  the  little  girl. 

"Ma-ah,  say,  ma."  At  times  his  monotonous  plaint  reached  his 
mother's  consciousness.  She  suddenly  realized  what  this  was  that 
was  annoying  her. 

"Owgooste,  will  you  sit  down  ?"    She  caught  him  up  all  at  once, 


68  McTeague 

and  jammed  him  down  into  his  place.  "Be  quiet,  den;'loog;  listun 
at  der  yunge  girls." 

Three  young  women  and  a  young  man  who  played  a  zither  occu 
pied  the  stage.  They  were  dressed  in  Tyrolese  costume ;  they  were 
yodlers,  and  sang  in  German  about  "mountain-tops"  and  "bold 
hunters"  and  the  like.  The  yodling  chorus  was  a  marvel  of  flnte- 
like  modulations.  The  girls  were  really  pretty,  and  were  not  made 
up  in  the  least.  Their  "turn"  had  a  great  success.  Mrs.  Sieppe 
was  entranced.  Instantly  she  remembered'  her  girlhood  and  her  na 
tive  Swiss  village. 

"Ach,  dot  is  heavunly;  joost  like  der  old  country.  Mein  gran'- 
mutter  used  to  be  one  of  der  mos'  famous  yodlers.  When  I  was 
leedle,  I  haf  seen  dem  joost  like  dat." 

"Ma-ah,"  began  Owgooste  fretfully,  as  soon  as  the  yodlers  had 
departed.  He  protested  that  he  was  sleepy,  as  though  it  was  a 
matter  for  which  the  party  were  indiscriminately  responsible. 

"Ma-ah,  I  want  to  go  ho-ome." 

"Pehave !"  exclaimed  his  mother,  shaking  him  by  the  arm ;  "loog, 
der  leedle  girl  is  watchun  you.  Dis  is  der  last  dime  I  take  you  to 
der  blay,  you  see." 

"I  don't  ca-are ;  I'm  sleepy."  At  length,  to  their  great  relief,  he 
went  to  sleep,  his  head  against  his  mother's  arm. 

The  kinetoscope  fairly  took  their  breaths  away. 

"What  will  they  do  next?"  observed  Trina,  in  amazement. 
"Ain't  that  wonderful,  Mac?" 

McTeague  was  awe-struck. 

"Look  at  that  horse  move  his  head,"  he  cried  excitedly,  quite 
carried  away.  "Look  at  that  cable-car  coming — and  the  man  going 
across  the  street.  See,  here  comes  a  truck.  Well,  I  never  in  all 
my  life !  What  would  Marcus  say  to  this  ?" 

"It's  all  a  drick!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sieppe,  with  sudden  convic 
tion.  "I  ain't  no  fool ;  dot's  nothun  but  a  drick." 

"Well,  of  course,  mamma,"  exclaimed  Trina,  "it's — " 

But  Mrs.  Sieppe  put  her  head  in  the  air. 

"I'm  too  old  to  be  fooled,"  she  persisted.  "It's  a  drick."  Noth 
ing  more  could  be  got  out  of  her  than  this. 

The  party  stayed  to  the  very  end  of  the  show,  though  the  kineto 
scope  was  the  last  number  but  one  on  the  programme,  and  fully  half 
the  audience  left  immediately  afterward.  However,  while  the  un 
fortunate  Irish  comedian  went  through  his  "act"  to  the  backs  of 
the  departing  people,  Mrs.  Sieppe  woke  Owgooste,  very  cross  and 


McTeague  69 

sleepy,  and  began  getting  her  "things  together."  McTeague  groped 
under  his  seat,  reaching  about  for  his  hat. 

"Save  der  brogramme,  Trina,"  whispered  Mrs.  Sieppe.  "Take, 
tit  home  to  popper.  Where  is  der  net  redicule,  eh?  Haf  you  got 
mein  handkerchief,  Trina?" 

But  McTeague  was  in  distress.  He  had  lost  his  hat.  What 
could  have  become  of  it?  Again  and  again  he  thrust  his  hand 
blindly  underneath  the  seat,  feeling  about  upon  the  dusty  floor. 
His  face  became  scarlet  with  embarrassment  and  with  the  effort  of 
bending  his  great  body  in  so  contracted  a  space;  he  bumped  his 
head  upon  the  backs  of  the  seats  in  front  of  him. 

At  length  he  recovered  it  from  a  remote  corner,  in  company  with 
Mrs.  Sieppe's  reticule,  sadly  battered  by  a  score  of  feet.  He  clapped 
it  upon  his  head  with  a  breath  of  relief.  But  when  he  turned  about 
to  hand  her  reticule  to  Mrs.  Sieppe  he  was  struck  with  bewilder 
ment.  Neither  Mrs.  Sieppe,  Trina,  nor  Owgooste  was  anywhere  in 
sight.  McTeague  found  himself  staring  into  the  faces  of  some 
dozen  people  whose  progress  he  was  blocking. 

"What — where  are  they  gone  ?"  muttered  McTeague. 

He  gazed  about  him  in  great  embarrassment,  rolling  his  eyes. 
But  the  moving  audience  had  carried  the  Sieppes  further  down  the 
aisle.  At  last  McTeague  discovered  them  and  crushed  his  way  to 
them  with  bull-like  force  and  directness.  They,  meanwhile,  sidled 
into  an  empty  row  of  seats  to  wait  for  him. 

The  party  filed  out  at  the  tail  end  of  the  audience.  Already  the 
lights  were  being  extinguished  and  the  ushers  spreading  drugget- 
ing  over  the  upholstered  seats. 

McTeague  and  the  Sieppes  took  an  uptown  car  that  would 
bring  them  near  Polk  Street.  The  car  was  crowded;  McTeague 
and  Owgooste  were  obliged  to  stand.  The  little  boy  fretted  to  be 
taken  in  his  mother's  lap,  but  Mrs.  Sieppe  emphatically  refused. 

On  their  way  home  they  discussed  the  performance. 

"I— I  like  best  der  yodlers." 

"Ah,  the  soloist  was  the  best — the  lady  who  sang  those  sad 
songs  " 

"Wasn't — wasn't  that  magic  lantern  wonderful,  where  the  fig 
ure  moved?  Wonderful — ah,  wonderful!  And  wasn't  that  first 
act  funny,  where  the  fellow  fell  down  all  the  time?  And  that  mu 
sical  act,  and  the  fellow  with  Jhe  Jburnt^cprk  lace^who  played 
'Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee'  on  tne  ^eeTbotties?1" 

They  got  off  at  Polk  Street  and  walked  up  a.  block  to  the  flat 


7o  McTeague 

The  street  was  dark  and  empty ;  opposite  the  flat,  in  the  back  of  the 
deserted  market,  the  ducks  and  geese  were  calling  persistently. 

As  they  were  buying  their  tamales  from  the  half-breed  Mexican 
at  the  street  corner,  McTeague  observed : 

"Marcus  ain't  gone  to  bed  yet.  See,  there's  a  light  in  his  win 
dow.  There !"  he  exclaimed  at  once,  "I  forgot  the  door-key.  Well, 
Marcus  can  let  us  in." 

Hardly  had  he  rung  the  bell  at  the  street  door  of  the  flat  when 
the  bolt  was  shot  back.  In  the  hall  at  the  top  of  the  long,  narrow 
staircase  there  was  the  sound  of  a  great  scurrying.  Maria  Macapa 
stood  there,  her  hand  upon  the  rope  that  drew  the  bolt ;  Marcus  was 
at  her  side ;  Old  Grannis  was  in  the  background,  looking  over  their 
shoulders;  while  little  Miss  Baker  leaned  over  the  banisters,  a 
strange  man  in  a  drab  overcoat  at  her  side.  As  McTeague's  party 
stepped  into  the  doorway  a  half-dozen  voices  cried: 

"Yes,  it's  them." 

"Is  that  you,  Mac?" 

"Is  that  you,  Miss  Sieppe?" 

"Is  your  name  Trina  Sieppe?" 

Then,  shriller  than  all  the  rest,  Maria  Macapa  screamed : 

"Oh,  Miss  Sieppe,  come  up  here  quick.  Your  lottery  ticket  has 
won  five  thousand  dollars !" 


VII 

"WHAT  nonsense,"  answered  Trina. 

" Ach  Gott !  What  is  ut  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Sieppe,  misunderstanding, 
supposing  a  calamity. 

"What — what — what,"  stammered  the  dentist,  confused  by 
the  lights,  the  crowded  stairway,  the  medley  of  voices.  The  party 
reached  the  landing.  The  others  surrounded  them.  Marcus  alone 
seemed  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"Le'  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you,"  he  cried,  catching 
Trina's  hand.  Every  one  was  talking  at  once. 

"Miss  Sieppe,  Miss  Sieppe,  your  ticket  had  won  five  thousand 
dollars,"  cried  Maria.  "Don't  you  remember  the  lottery  ticket  I 
sold  you  in  Doctor  McTeague's  office?" 

"Trina!"  almost  screamed  her  mother.  "Five  tausand  thalers ! 
five  tausand  thalers !  If  popper  were  only  here !" 


McTeague  71 

"What  is  it — what  is  it?"  exclaimed  McTeagtie,  rolling  his 
eyes. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  Trina?"  inquired  Marcus. 

"You're  a  rich  woman,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Baker,  her  little 
false  curls  quivering  with  excitement,  "and  I'm  glad  for  your  sake. 
Let  me  kiss  you.  To  think  I  was  in  the  room  when  you  bought 
the  ticket!" 

"Oh,  oh !"  interrupted  Trina,  shaking  her  head,  "there  is  a  mis 
take.  There  must  be.  Why — why  should  I  win  five  thousand  dol 
lars?  It's  nonsense!" 

"No  mistake,  no  mistake,"  screamed  Maria.  "Your  number  was 
400,012.  Here  it  is  in  the  paper  this  evening.  I  remember  it  well, 
because  I  keep  an  account." 

"But  I  know  you're  wrong,"  answered  Trina,  beginning  to  trem 
ble  in  spite  of  herself.  "Why  should  I  win?" 

"Eh  ?    Why  shouldn't  you  ?"  cried  her  mother. 

In  fact,  why  shouldn't  she?  The  idea  suddenly  occurred  to 
Trina.  After  all,  it  was  not  a  question  of  effort  or  merit  on  her 
part.  Why  should  she  suppose  a  mistake?  What  if  it  were  true, 
this  wonderful  fillip  of  fortune  striking  in  there  like  some  chance- 
driven  bolt? 

"Oh»,  do  you  think  so?"  she  gasped. 

The  stranger  in  the  drab  overcoat  came  forward. 

"It's  the  agent,"  cried  two  or  three  voices,  simultaneously. 

"I  guess  you're  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  Miss  Sieppe,"  he  said. 
"I  suppose  you  have  kept  your  ticket." 

"Yes,  yes ;  four  three  oughts  twelve — I  remember." 

"That's  right,"  admitted  the  other.  "Present  your  ticket  at  the 
local  branch  office  as  soon  as  possible — the  address  is  printed  on  the 
back  of  the  ticket — and  you'll  receive  a  check  on  our  bank  for  five 
thousand  dollars.  Your  number  will  have  to  be  verified  on  our 
official  list,  but  there's  hardly  a  chance  of  a  mistake.  I  congratulate 
you." 

All  at  once  a  great  thrill  of  gladness  surged  up  in  Trina.  She 
was  to  possess  five  thousand  dollars.  She  was  carried  away  with 
the  joy  of  her  good  fortune,  a  natural,  spontaneous  joy — the  gayety 
of  a  child  with  a  new  and  wonderful  toy. 

"Oh,  I've  won,  I've  won,  I've  won!"  she  cried,  clapping  her 
hands.  "Mamma,  think  of  it.  I've  won  five  thousand  dollars,  just 
by  buying  a  ticket.  Mac,  what  do  you  say  to  that?  I've  got  five 
thousand  dollars.  August,  do  you  hear  what's  happened  to  sister  ?" 


72  McTeague 

"Kiss  your  mommer,  Trina,"  suddenly  commanded  Mrs.  Sieppe. 
"What  efer  will  you  do  mit  all  dose  money,  eh,  Trina  ?" 

"Huh !"  exclaimed  Marcus.  "Get  married  on  it  for  one  thing." 
Thereat  they  all  shouted  with  laughter.  McTeague  grinned,  and 
looked  about  sheepishly.  "Talk  about  luck,"  muttered  Marcus, 
shaking  his  head  at  the  dentist ;  then  suddenly  he  added : 

"Well,  are  we  going  to  stay  talking  out  here  in  the  hall  all  night  ? 
Can't  we  all  come  into  your  'Parlors/  Mac?" 

"Sure,  sure,"  exclaimed  McTeague,  hastily  unlocking  the  door. 

"Efery  botty  gome,"  cried  Mrs.  Sieppe,  genially — "Ain't  ut  so, 
Doktor?" 

"Everybody,"  repeated  the  dentist.  "There's — there's  some 
beer." 

"We'll  celebrate,  by  damn!"  exclaimed  Marcus.  "It  ain't  every 
day  you  win  five  thousand  dollars.  It's  only  Sundays  and  legal 
holidays."  Again  he  set  the  company  off  into  a  gale  of  laughter. 
Anything  was  funny  at  a  time  like  this.  In  some  way  every  one  of 
them  felt  elated.  The  wheel  of  fortune  had  come  spinning  close  to 
them.  They  were  near  to  this  great  sum  of  money.  It  was  as 
though  they,  too,  had  won. 

"Here's  right  where  I  sat  when  I  bought  that  ticket,"  cried 
Trina,  after  they  had  come  into  the  "Parlors"  and  Marcus  had 
lighted  the  gas.  "Right  here  in  this  chair."  She  sat  down  in  one 
of  the  rigid  chairs  under  the  steel  engraving.  "And,  Marcus,  you 
sat  here—" 

"And  I  was  just  getting  out  of  the  operating  chair,"  interposed 
Miss  Baker. 

"Yes,  yes.  That's  so;  and  you,"  continued  Trina,  pointing  to 
Maria,  "came  up  and  said,  'Buy  a  ticket  in  the  lottery ;  just  a  dollar/ 
Oh,  I  remember  it  just  as  plain  as  though  it  was  yesterday,  and  I 
wasn't  going  to  at  first — " 

"And  don't  you  know  I  told  Maria  it  was  against  the  law  ?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,  and  then  I  gave  her  a  dollar  and  put  the 
ticket  in  my  pocketbook.  It's  in  my  pocketbook  now  at  home  in  the 
top  drawer  of  my  bureau — oh,  suppose  it  should  be  stolen  now," 
she  suddenly  exclaimed. 

"It's  worth  big  money  now,"  asserted  Marcus. 

"Five  thousand  dollars.  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  It's  won 
derful."  Everybody  started  and  turned.  It  was  McTeague.  He 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  wagging  his  huge  head.  He  seemed 
to  have  just  realized  what  had  happened. 


McTeague  73 

"Yes,  sir,  five  thousand  dollars !"  exclaimed  Marcus,  with  a 
sudden  unaccountable  mirthlessness.  "Five  thousand  dollars!  Do 
you  get  on  to  that  ?  Cousin  Trina  and  you  will  be  rich  people." 

"At  six  per  cent,  that's  twenty-five  dollars  a  month,"  hazarded 
the  agent. 

"Think  of  it.  Think  of  it,"  muttered  McTeague.  He  went  aim 
lessly  about  the  room,  his  eyes  wide,  his  enormous  hands  dangling. 

"A  cousin  of  mine  won  forty  dollars  once,"  observed  Miss  Baker. 
"But  he  spent  every  cent  of  it  buying  more  tickets,  and  never  won 
anything." 

Then  the  reminiscences  began.  Maria  told  about  the  butcher  on 
the  next  block  who  had  won  twenty  dollars  the  last  drawing.  Mrs. 
Sieppe  knew  a  gasfitter  in  Oakland  who  had  won  several  times; 
once  a  hundred  dollars.  Little  Miss  Baker  announced  that  she  had 
always  believed  that  lotteries  were  wrong;  but,  just  the  same,  five 
thousand  was  five  thousand. 

"It's  all  right  when  you  win,  ain't  it,  Miss  Baker?"  observed 
Marcus,  with  a  certain  sarcasm.  What  was  the  matter  with  Mar 
cus?  At  moments  he  seemed  singularly  out  of  temper. 

But  tne  agent  was  full  of  stories.  He  told  his  experiences,  the 
legends  and  myths  that  had  grown  up  around  the  history  of  the 
lottery ;  he  told  of  the  poor  newsboy  with  a  dying  mother  to  support 
who  had  drawn  a  prize  of  fifteen  thousand ;  of  the  man  who  was 
driven  to  suicide  through  want,  but  who  held  (had  he  but  known 
it)  the  number  that  two  days  after  his  death  drew  the  capital  prize 
of  thirty  thousand  dollars ;  of  the  little  milliner  who  for  ten  years 
had  played  the  lottery  without  success,  and  who  had  one  day  de 
clared  that  she  would  buy  but  one  more  ticket  and  then  give  up  try 
ing,  and  of  how  this  last  ticket  had  brought  her  a  fortune  upon 
which  she  could  retire;  of  tickets  that  had  been  lost  or  destroyed, 
and  whose  numbers  had  won  fabulous  sums  at  the  drawing;  of 
criminals,  driven  to  vice  by  poverty,  and  who  had  reformed  after 
winning  competencies ;  of  gamblers  who  played  the  lottery  as  they 
would  play  a  faro  bank,  turning  in  their  winnings  again  as  soon  as 
made,  buying  thousands  of  tickets  all  over  the  country;  of  super 
stitions  as  to  terminal  and  initial  numbers,  and  as  to  lucky  days  of 
purchase ;  of  marvelous  coincidences — three  capital  prizes  drawn 
consecutively  by  the  same  town ;  a  ticket  bought  by  a  millionaire  and 
given  to  his  bootblack,  who  won  a  thousand  dollars  upon  it;  the 
same  number  winning  the  same  amount  an  indefinite  number  of 
times ;  and  so  on  to  infinity.  Invariably  it  was  the  needy  who  won, 

D— III— NORRIS 


74  McTeague 

the  destitute  and  starving  woke  to  wealth  and  plenty,  the  virtuous 
toiler  suddenly  found  his  reward  in  a  ticket  bought  at  a  hazard » 
the  lottery  was  a  great  charity,  the  friend  of  the  people,  a  vast 
beneficent  machine  that  recognized  neither  rank  nor  wealth  nor 
station. 

The  company  began  to  be  very  gay.  Chairs  and  tables  were 
brought  in  from  the  adjoining  rooms,  and  Maria  was  sent  out  for 
more  beer  and  tamales,  and  also  commissioned  to  buy  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  some  cake  for  Miss  Baker,  who  abhorred  beer. 

The  "Dental  Parlors"  were  in  great  confusion.  Empty  beer 
bottles  stood  on  the  movable  rack  where  the  instruments  were  kept ; 
plates  and  napkins  were  upon  the  seat  of  the  operating  chair  and 
upon  the  stand  of  shelves  in  the  corner,  side  by  side  with  the  con 
certina  and  the  volumes  of  "Allen's  Practical  Dentist."  The  canary 
woke  and  chittered  crossly,  his  feathers  puffed  out;  the  husks  of 
tamales  littered  the  floor;  the  stone  pug  dog  sitting  before  the  little 
stove  stared  at  the  unusual  scene,  his  glass  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets. 

They  drank  and  feasted  in  impromptu  fashion.  Marcus  Schouler 
assumed  the  office  of  master  of  ceremonies;  he  was  in  a  lather  of 
excitement,  rushing  about  here  and  there,  opening  beer  bottles, 
serving  the  tamales,  slapping  McTeague  upon  the  back,  laughing 
and  joking  continually.  He  made  McTeague  sit  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  with  Trina  at  his  right  and  the  agent  at  his  left ;  he — when  he 
sat  down  at  all — occupied  the  foot,  Maria  Macapa  at  his  left,  while 
next  to  her  was  Mrs.  Sieppe,  opposite  Miss  Baker.  Owgooste  had 
been  put  to  bed  upon  the  bed-lounge. 

"Where's  Old  Grannis?"  suddenly  exclaimed  Marcus.  Sure 
enough,  where  had  the  old  Englishman  gone?  He  had  been  there 
at  first. 

"I  called  him  down  with  everybody  else,"  cried  Maria  Macapa, 
"as  soon  as  I  saw  in  the  paper  that  Miss  Sieppe  had  won.  We  all 
came  down  to  Mr.  Schouler's  room  and  waited  for  you  to  come 
home.  I  think  he  must  have  gone  back  to  his  room.  I'll  bet  you'll 
find  him  sewing  up  his  books." 

"No,  no,"  observed  Miss  Baker,  "not  at  this  hour." 

Evidently  the  timid  old  gentleman  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
confusion  to  slip  unobtrusively  away. 

"I'll  go  bring  him  down,"  shouted  Marcus;  "he's  got  to  join 
us." 

Miss  Baker  was  in  great  agitation. 


McTeague  75 

"I— I  hardly  think  you'd  better,"  she  murmured;  "he — he— I 
don't  think  he  drinks  beer." 

"He  takes  his  amusement  in  sewin'  up  books,"  cried  Maria. 

Marcus  brought  him  down,  nevertheless,  having  found  him  just 
preparing  for  bed. 

"I — I  must  apologize,"  stammered  Old  Grannis,  as  he  stood  in 
the  doorway.  "I  had  not  quite  expected — I — find — find  myself  a 
little  unprepared."  He  was  without  collar  and  cravat,  owing  to 
Marcus  Schouler's  precipitate  haste.  He  was  annoyed  beyond 
words  that  Miss  Baker  saw  him  thus.  Could  anything  be  more  em 
barrassing? 

Old  Grannis  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Sieppe  and  to  Trina  as 
Marcus's  employer.  They  shook  hands  solemnly. 

"I  don't  believe  that  he  an*  Miss  Baker  have  ever  been  intro 
duced,"  cried  Maria  Macapa,  shrilly,  "an'  they've  been  livin'  side 
by  side  for  years." 

The  two  old  people  were  speechless,  avoiding  each  other's  gaze. 
It  had  come  at  last ;  they  were  to  know  each  other,  to  talk  together, 
to  touch  each  other's  hands. 

Marcus  brought  Old  Grannis  around  the  table  to  little  Miss 
Baker,  dragging  him  by  the  coat  sleeve,  exclaiming:  "Well,  I 
thought  you  two  people  knew  each  other  long  ago.  Miss  Baker, 
this  is  Mr.  Grannis ;  Mr.  Grannis,  this  is  Miss  Baker."  Neither 
spoke.  Like  two  little  children  they  faced  each  other,  awkward, 
constrained,  tongue-tied  with  embarrassment.  Then  Miss  Baker 
put  out  her  hand  shyly.  Old  Grannis  touched  it  for  an  instant  and 
let  it  fall. 

"Now  you  know  each  other,"  cried  Marcus,  "and  it's  about 
time."  For  the  first  time  their  eyes  met ;  Old  Grannis  trembled  a  lit 
tle,  putting  his  hand  uncertainly  to  his  chin.  Miss  Baker  flushed 
ever  so  slightly,  but  Maria  Macapa  passed  suddenly  between  them, 
carrying  a  half  empty  beer  bottle.  The  two  old  people  fell  back 
from  one  another,  Miss  Baker  resuming  her  seat. 

"Here's  a  place  for  you  over  here,  Mr.  Grannis,"  cried  Marcus, 
making  room  for  him  at  his  side.  Old  Grannis  slipped  into  the 
chair,  withdrawing  at  once  from  the  company's  notice.  He  stared 
fixedly  at  his  plate  and  did  not  speak  again.  Old  Miss  Baker  began 
to  talk  yolubly  across  the  table  to  Mrs.  Sieppe  about  hot-house 
flowers  and  medicated  flannels. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  little  impromptu  supper  that  the 
engagement  of  Trina  and  the  dentist  was  announced.  In  a  pause 


7  6  McTeague 

in  the  chatter  of  conversation  Mrs.  Sieppe  leaned  forward  and, 
speaking  to  the  agent,  said: 

"Veil,  you  know  also  my  daughter  Trina  get  married  bretty 
soon.  She  and  der  dentist,  Doktor  McTeague,  eh,  yes?" 

There  was  a  general  exclamation. 

"I  thought  so  all  along,"  cried  Miss  Baker,  excitedly.  'The 
first  time  I  saw  them  together  I  said,  'What  a  pair !' ' 

"Delightful!"  exclaimed  the  agent,  "to  be  married  and  win  a 
snug  little  fortune  at  the  same  time." 

"So — so,"  murmured  Old  Grannis,  nodding  at  his  plate. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  cried  Maria~____^ 

"He's  lucky  enough  already,"  growle}i  Marcus  under  his  breath, 
relapsing  for  a  moment  into  one  of  those  strange  moods  of  sullen- 
ness  which  had  marked  him  throughout  the  evening. 

Trina  flushed  crimson,  drawing  shyly  nearer  her  mother.  Mc 
Teague  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  looking  around  from  one  to  an 
other,  exclaiming  "Huh !  huh !" 

But  the  agent  rose  to  his  feet,  a  newly  filled  beer  glass  in  his 
hand.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  this  agent.  He  knew  life.  He 
was  suave  and  easy.  A  diamond  was  on  his  little  finger. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  began.  There  was  an  instant 
silence.  "This  is  indeed  a  happy  occasion.  I — I  am  glad  to  be 
here  to-night;  to  be  a  witness  to  such  good  fortune;  to  partake  in 
these — in  this  celebration.  Why,  I  feel  almost  as  glad  as  if  I  had 
held  four  three  oughts  twelve  myself;  as  if  the  five  thousand  were 
mine  instead  of  belonging  to  our  charming  hostess.  The  good 
wishes  of  my  humble  self  go  out  to  Miss  Sieppe  in  this  moment  of 
her  good  fortune,  and  I  think — in  fact,  I  am  sure  I  can  speak  for 
the  great  institution,  the  great  company  I  represent.  The 
company  congratulates  Miss  Sieppe.  We — they — all —  They 
wish  her  every  happiness  her  new  fortune  can  procure  her. 
It  has  been  my  duty,  my — ah — cheerful  duty  to  call  upon  the 
winners  of  large  prizes  and  to  offer  the  felicitation  of  the  company. 
I  have,  in  my  experience,  called  upon  many  such;  but  never  have 
I  seen  fortune  so  happily  bestowed  as  in  this  case.  ^The  company 
have  dowered  the  prospective  bridej>  I  am  sure  I  but  echo  the  senti 
ments  of  this  assembly  when  I  wish  all  joy  and  happiness  to  this 
happy  pair,  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  snug  little  fortune,  and 
happy — happy  in—"  he  finished  with  a  sudden  inspiration — "in  the 
possession  of  each  other;  I  drink  to  the  health,  wealth,  and  hap 
piness  of  the  future  bride  and  groom.  Let  us  drink  standing  up." 


McTeague  77 

They  drank  with  enthusiasm.  Marcus  was  carried  away  with  the 
excitement  of  the  moment. 

"Outa  sight,  outa  sight,"  he  vociferated,  clapping  his  hands. 
"Very  well  said.  To  the  health  of  the  bride.  McTeague,  Mc 
Teague,  speech,  speech!" 

In  an  instant  the  whole  table  was  clamoring  for  the  dentist  to 
speak.  McTeague  was  terrified;  he  gripped  the  table  with  both 
hands,  looking  wildly  about  him. 

"Speech,  speech !"  shouted  Marcus,  running  around  the  table 
ai'd  endeavoring  to  drag  McTeague  up. 

"No — no — no,"  muttered  the  other.  "No  speech."  The  com 
pany  rattled  upon  the  table  with  their  beer  glasses,  insisting  upon 
a  speech.  McTeague  settled  obstinately  into  his  chair,  very  red  in 
the  face,  shaking  his  head  energetically. 

"A.h,  go  on!"  he  exclaimed;  "no  speech." 

"Ah,  get  up  and  say  somethun,  anyhow,"  persisted  Marcus; 
"you  ought  to  do  it.  It's  the  proper  caper." 

McTeague  heaved  himself  up ;  there  was  a  burst  of  applause ;  he 
looked  slowly  about  him,  then  suddenly  sat  down  again,  shaking 
his  head  hopelessly. 

"Oh,  go  on,  Mac,"  cried  Trina. 

"Get  up,  say  somethun,  anyhow,"  cried  Marcus,  tugging  at  his 
arm ;  "you  gat  to." 

Once  more  McTeague  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Huh !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  steadily  at  the  table.  Then  he 
began : 

"I  don'  know  what  to  say — I — I — I  ain't  never  made  a  speech 
before ;  I — I  ain't  never  made  a  speech  before.  But  I'm  glad  Trina's 
won  the  prize — " 

"Yes,  I'll  bet  you  are,"  muttered  Marcus. 

"I — I — I'm  glad  Trina's  won,  and  I — I  want  to — I  want  to — I 
want  to — want  to  say  that — you're — all — welcome,  an'  drink  hearty, 
an'  I'm  much  obliged  to  the  agent.  Trina  and  I  are  goin'  to  be 
married,  an'  I'm  glad  everybody's  here  to-night,  an'  you're — all — 
welcome,  an'  drink  hearty,  an'  I  hope  you'll  come  again,  an'  you're 
always  welcome — an' — I — an' — an' —  That's — about — all — I — gotta 
say."  He  sat  down,  wiping  his  forehead,  amid  tremendous  ap 
plause. 

Soon  after  that  the  company  pushed  back  from  the  table  and 
relaxed  into  couples  and  groups.  The  men,  with  the  exception  of 
Old  Grannis,  began  to  smoke,  the  smell  of  their  tobacco  mingling 


78  McTeague 

with  the  odors  of  ether,  creosote,  and  stale  bedding,  which  pervaded 
the  "Parlors."  Soon  the  windows  had  to  be  lowered  from  the  top. 
Mrs.  Sieppe  and  old  Miss  Baker  sat  together  in  the  bay  wirdow 
exchanging  confidences.  Miss  Baker  had  turned  back  the  overskirt 
of  her  dress;  a  plate  of  cake  was  in  her  lap;  from  time  to  time  she 
sipped  her  wine  with  the  delicacy  of  a  white  cat.  The  two  worr  en 
were  much  interested  in  each  other.  Miss  Baker  told  Mrs.  Sieppe 
all  about  Old  Grannis,  not  forgetting  the  fiction  of  the  title  and  the 
unjust  stepfather. 

"He's  quite  a  personage  really,"  said  Miss  Baker. 

Mrs.  Sieppe  led  the  conversation  around  to  her  children.  "Ach, 
Trina  is  sudge  a  goote  girl,"  she  said;  "always  gay,  yes,  und  sing 
from  morgen  to  night.  Und  Owgooste,  he  is  soh  smart  also,  yes, 
eh  ?  He  has  der  genius  for  machines,  always  making  somethun  mit 
wheels  und  sbrings." 

"Ah,  if — if — I  had  children,"  murmured  the  little  old  rr.aid  a 
trifle  wistfully,  "one  would  have  been  a  sailor ;  he  would  have  begun 
as  a  midshipman  on  my  brother's  ship ;  in  time  he  would  have  been 
an  officer.  The  other  would  have  been  a  landscape  gardener." 

"Oh,  Mac !"  exclaimed  Trina,  looking  up  into  the  dentist's  face, 
"think  of  all  this  money  coming  to  us  just  at  this  very  moment. 
Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  Don't  it  kind  of  scare  you  ?" 

"Wonderful,  wonderful !"  muttered  McTeague,  shaking  his  head. 
"Let's  buy  a  lot  of  tickets,"  he  added,  struck  with  an  idea. 

"Now,  that's  how  you  can  always  tell  a  good  cigar,"  observed 
the  agent  to  Marcus  as  the  two  sat  smoking  at  the  end  of  the  table. 
"The  light  end  should  be  rolled  to  a  point." 

"Ah,  the  Chinese  cigar-makers,"  cried  Marcus,  in  a  passion, 
brandishing  his  fist,  "It's  them  as  is  ruining  the  cause  of  white 
labor.  They  are,  they  are  for  a  fact.  Ah,  the  rat-eaters !  Ah,  the 
white-livered  curs!" 

Over  in  the  corner,  by  the  stand  of  shelves,  Old  Grannis  was 
listening  to  Maria  Macapa.  The  Mexican  woman  had  been  vio 
lently  stirred  over  Trina's  sudden  wealth;  Maria's  mind  had  gone 
back  to  her  younger  days.  She  leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  wide  and  fixed.  Old  Grannis 
listened  to  her  attentively. 

"There  wa'n't  a  piece  that  was  so  much  as  scratched,"  Maria 
was  saying.  "Every  piece  was  just  like  a  mirror,  smooth  and 
bright ;  oh,  bright  as  a  little  sun.  Such  a  service  as  that  was — plat 
ters  and  soup  tureens  and  an  immense  big  punch-bowl.  Five  thou- 


McTeague  79 

sand  dollars,  what  does  that  amount  to?  Why,  that  punch-bowl 
alone  was  worth  a  fortune." 

"What  a  wonderful  story!"  exclaimed  Old  Grannis,  never  for 
an  instant  doubting  its  truth.  "And  it's  all  lost  now,  you  say  ?" 

"Lost,  lost,"  repeated  Maria. 

"Tut,  tut !    What  a  pity !    What  a  pity !" 

Suddenly  the  agent  rose  and  broke  out  with : 

"Well,  /  must  be  going,  if  I'm  to  get  any  car." 

He  shook  hands  with  everybody,  offered  a  parting  cigar  to  Mar 
cus,  congratulated  McTeague  and  Trina  a  last  time,  and  bowed 
himself  out. 

"What  an  elegant  gentleman,"  commented  Miss  Baker. 

"Ah,"  said  Marcus,  nodding  his  head,  "there's  a  man  of  the 
world  for  you.  Right  on  to  himself,  by  damnl" 

The  company  broke  up. 

"Come  along,  Mac,"  cried  Marcus ;  "we're  to  sleep  with  the  dogs 
to-night,  you  know." 

The  two  friends  said  "Good-night"  all  around  and  departed  for 
the  little  dog  hospital. 

Old  Grannis  hurried  to  his  room  furtively  terrified  lest  he  should 
again  be  brought  face  to  face  with  Miss  Baker.  He  bolted  himself 
in  and  listened  until  he  heard  her  foot  in  the  hall  and  the  soft  clos 
ing  of  her  door.  She  was  there  close  beside  him ;  as  one  might  say, 
in  the  same  room;  for  he,  too,  had  made  the  discovery  as  to  the 
similarity  of  the  wall-paper.  At  long  intervals  he  could  hear  a  faint 
rustling  as  she  moved  about.  What  an  evening  that  had  been  for 
him !  He  had  met  her,  had  spoken  to  her,  had  touched  her  hand ; 
he  was  in  a  tremor  of  excitement.  In  a  like  manner  the  little  old 
dressmaker  listened  and  quivered.  He  was  there  in  that  same 
room  which  they  shared  in  common,  separated  only  by  the  thinnest 
board  partition.  He  was  thinking  of  her,  she  was  almost  sure  of  it. 
They  were  strangers  no  longer;  they  were  acquaintances,  friends. 
What  an  event  that  evening  had  been  in  their  lives ! 

Late  as  it  was,  Miss  Baker  brewed  a  cup  of  tea  and  sat  down 
in  her  rocking-chair  close  to  the  partition ;  she  rocked  gently,  sipping 
her  tea,  calming  herself  after  the  emotions  of  that  wonderful 
evening. 

Old  Grannis  heard  the  clinking  of  the  tea  things  and  smelled 
the  faint  odor  of  the  tea.  It  seemed  to  him  a  signal,  an  invitation. 
He  drew  his  chair  close  to  his  side  of  the  partition,  before  his  work- 
table.  A  pile  of  half-bound  "Nations"  was  in  the  little  binding  ap- 


80  McTeague 

paratus ;  he  threaded  his  huge  upholsterer's  needle  with  stout  twine 
and  set  to  work. 

It  was  their  tete-a-tete.  Instinctively  they  felt  each  other's 
presence,  felt  each  other's  thought  coming  to  them  through  the 
thin  partition.  It  was  charming ;  they  were  perfectly  happy.  There 
in  the  stillness  that  settled  over  the  flat  in  the  half  hour  after  mid 
night  the  two  old  people  "kept  company/'  enjoying  after  their  fash 
ion  their  little  romance  that  had  come  so  late  into  the  life  of  each. 

On  the  way  to  her  room  in  the  garret  Maria  Macapa  passed 
under  the  single  gas-jet  that  burned  at  the  top  of  the  well  of  the 
staircase;  she  assured  herself  that  she  was  alone,  and  then  drew 
from  her  pocket  one  of  McTeague's  "tapes"  of  non-cohesive  gold. 
It  was  the  most  valuable  steal  she  had  ever  yet  made  in  the  dentist's 
"Parlors."  She  told  herself  that  it  was  worth  at  least  a  couple  of 
dollars.  Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  her,  and  she  went  hastily  to 
a  window  at  the  end  of  the  hall  and,  shading  her  face  with  both 
hands,  looked  down  into  the  little  alley  just  back  of  the  flat.  On 
some  nights  Zerkow,  the  red-headed  Polish  Jew,  sat  up  late,  taking 
account  of  the  week's  rag-picking.  There  was  a  dim  light  in  his 
window  now. 

Maria  went  to  her  room,  threw  a  shawl  around  her  head,  and 
descended  into  the  little  back  yard  of  the  flat  by  the  back  stairs.  As 
she  let  herself  out  of  the  back  gate  into  the  alley,  Alexander,  Mar 
cus's  Irish  setter,  woke  suddenly  with  a  gruff  bark.  The  collie  who 
lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  in  the  back  yard  of  the  branch 
post-office,  answered  with  a  snarl.  Then  in  an  instant  the  endless 
feud  between  the  two  dogs  was  resumed.  They  dragged  their  re- 
pective  kennels  to  the  fence,  and  through  the  cracks  raged  at  each 
other  in  a  frenzy  of  hate;  their  teeth  snapped  and  gleamed;  the 
hackles  on  their  backs  rose  and  stiffened.  Their  hideous  clamor 
could  have  been  heard  for  blocks  around.  What  a  massacre  should 
the  two  ever  meet! 

Meanwhile,  Maria  was  knocking  at  Zerkow's  miserable  hovel. 

"Who  is  it?  Who  is  it?"  cried  the  rag-picker  from  within,  in 
his  hoarse  voice,  that  was  half  whisper,  starting  nervously,  and 
sweeping  a  handful  of  silver  into  his  drawer. 

"It's  me,  Maria  Macapa ;"  then  in  a  lower  voice,  and  as  if  speak 
ing  to  herself,  "had  a  flying  squirrel  an'  let  him  go." 

"Ah,  "Maria,"  cried  Zerkow,  obsequiously  opening  the  door. 
"Come  in,  come  in,  my  girl;  you're  always  welcome,  even  as  late 
as  this.  No  junk,  hey?  But  you're  welcome  for  all  that  You'll 


McTeague  81 

have  a  drink,  won't  you?"    He  led  her  into  his  back  room  and  got 
down  the  whiskey  bottle  and  the  broken  red  tumbler. 

After  the  two  had  drank  together  Maria  produced  the  gold 
"tape."  Zerkow's  eyes  glittered  on  the  instant.  The  sight  of  gold 
invariably  sent  a  qualm  all  through  him ;  try  as  he  would,  he  could 
not  repress  it.  His  fingers  trembled  and  clawed  at  his  mouth;  his 
breath  grew  short. 

"Ah,  ah,  ah !"  he  exclaimed,  "give  it  here,  give  it  here ;  give  it 
to  me,  Maria.  That's  a  good  girl,  come,  give  it  to  me." 

They  haggled  as  usual  over  the  price,  but  to-night  Maria  was 
too  excited  over  other  matters  to  spend  much  time  in  bickering  over 
a  few  cents. 

"Look  here,  Zerkow,"  she  said  as  soon  as  the  transfer  was  made, 
"I  got  something  to  tell  you.  A  little  while  ago  I  sold  a  lottery 
ticket  to  a  girl  at  the  flat ;  the  drawing  was  in  this  evening's  papers. 
How  much  do  you  suppose  that  girl  has  won  ?" 

"I  don't  know.    How  much?    How  much?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars." 

It  was  as  though  a  knife  had  been  run  through  the  Jew;  a 
spasm  of  an  almost  physical  pain  twisted  his  face — his  entire  body. 
He  raised  his  clinched  fists  into  the  air,  his  eyes  shut,  his  teeth 
gnawing  his  lip. 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  he  whispered;  "five  thousand  dollars. 
For  what?  For  nothing,  for  simply  buying  a  ticket;  and  I  have 
worked  so  hard  for  it,  so  hard,  so  hard.  Five  thousand  dollars, 
five  thousand  dollars.  Oh,  why  couldn't  it  have  come  to  me?"  he 
cried,  his  voice  choking-,  the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes ;  "why  couldn't 
it  have  come  to  me  ?  To  come  so  close,  so  close,  and  yet  to  miss  me 
— me  who  have  worked  for  it,  fought  for  it,  starved  for  it,  am 
dying  for  it  every  day.  Think  of  it,  Maria,  five  thousand  dollars, 
all  bright,  heavy  pieces — " 

"Bright  as  a  sunset,"  interrupted  Maria,  her  chin  propped  on  her 
hands.  "Such  a  glory,  and  heavy.  Yes,  every  piece  was  heavy, 
and  it  was  all  you  could  do  to  lift  the  punch-bowl.  Why,  that 
punch-bowl  was  worth  a  fortune  alone — " 

"And  it  rang  when  you  hit  it  with  your  knuckles,  didn't  it?" 
prompted  Zerkow,  eagerly,  his  lips  trembling,  his  fingers  hooking 
themselves  into  claws. 

"Sweeter'n  any  church  bell,"  continued  Maria. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  go  on,"  cried  Zerkow,  drawing  his  chair  closer, 
and  shutting  his  eyes  in  ecstasy. 


82  McTeague 

"There  were  more  than  a  hundred  pieces,  and  every  one  of  them 
gold-" 

"Ah,  every  one  of  them  gold." 

"You  should  have  seen  the  sight  when  the  leather  trunk  was 
opened.  There  wa'n't  a  piece  that  was  so  much  as  scratched ;  every 
one  was  like  a  mirror,  smooth  and  bright,  polished  so  that  it  looked 
black — you  know  how  I  mean." 

"Ohx  I  know,  I  know,"  cried  Zerkow,  moistening  his  lips. 

Then  he  plied  her  with  questions — questions  that  covered  every 
detail  of  that  service  of  plate.  It  was  soft,  wasn't  it?  You  could 
bite  into  a  plate  and  leave  a  dent?  The  handles  of  the  knives,  now, 
were  they  gold,  too?  All  the  knife  was  made  from  one  piece  of 
gold,  was  it?  And  the  forks  the  same?  The  interior  of  the  trunk 
was  quilted,  of  course?  Did  Maria  ever  polish  the  plates  herself? 
When  the  company  ate  off  this  service,  it  must  have  made  a  fine 
noise — these  gold  knives  and  forks  clinking  together  upon  these 
gold  plates. 

"Now,  let's  have  it  all  over  again,  Maria,"  pleaded  Zerkow. 
"Begin  now  with  'There  were  more  than  a  hundred  pieces,  and 
every  one  of  them  gold/  Go  on,  begin,  begin,  begin!" 

The  red-headed  Pole  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement.  Maria's 
recital  had  become  a  veritable  mania  with  him.  As  he  listened, 
with  closed  eyes  and  trembling  lips,  he  fancied  he  could  see  that 
wonderful  plate  before  him,  there  on  the  table,  under  his  eyes,  under 
his  hand,  ponderous,  massive,  gleaming.  He  tormented  Maria  into 
a  second  repetition  of  the  story — into  a  third.  The  more  his  mind 
dwelt  upon  it,  the  sharper  grew  his  desire.  Then,  with  Maria's 
refusal  to  continue  the  tale,  came  the  reaction.  Zerkow  awoke  as 
from  some  ravishing  dream.  The  plate  was  gone,  was  irretrievably 
lost.  There  was  nothing  in  that  miserable  room  but  grimy  rags  and 
rust-corroded  iron.  What  torment!  what  agony!  to  be  so  near — 
so  near,  to  see  it  in  one's  distorted  fancy  as  plain  as  in  a  mirror. 
To  know  every  individual  piece  as  an  old  friend ;  to  feel  its  weight, 
to  be  dazzled  by  its  glitter ;  to  call  it  one's  own,  own ;  to  have  it  to 
one's  self,  hugged  to  the  breast ;  and  then  to  start,  to  wake,  to  come 
down  to  the  horrible  reality. 

"And  you,  you  had  it  once,"  gasped  Zerkow,  clawing  at  her 
arm ;  "you  had  it  once,  all  your  own.  Think  of  it,  and  now  it's  gone." 

"Gone  for  good  and  all." 

'Perhaps  it's  buried  near  your  old  place  somewhere." 

"It's  gone — gone — gone,"  chanted  Maria  in  a  monotone. 


McTeague  83 

Zerkow  dug-  his  nails  into  his  scalp,  tearing  at  his  red  hair. 
"Yes,  yes,  it's  gone,  it's  gone — lost  forever!     Lost  forever!" 

Maicus  and  the  dentist  walked  up  the  silent  street  and  reached 
the  little  dog  hospital.  They  had  hardly  spoken  on  the  way.  Mc- 
Teague's  brain  was  in  a  whirl;  speech  failed  him.  He  was  busy 
thinking  of  the  great  thing  that  had  happened  that  night,  and  was 
trying  to  realize  what  its  effect  would  be  upon  his  life — his  life 
and  Trina's.  As  soon  as  they  had  found  themselves  in  the  street, 
Marcus  had  relapsed  at  once  into  a  sullen  silence,  which  McTeague 
was  too  abstracted  to  notice. 

They  entered  the  tiny  office  of  the  hospital  with  its  red  carpet, 
its  gas  stove,  and  its  colored  prints  of  famous  dogs  hanging  against 
the  walls.  In  one  corner  stood  the  iron  bed  which  they  were  to 
occupy. 

"You  go  on  an'  get  to  bed,  Mac,"  observed  Marcus.  "I'll  take 
a  look  at  the  dogs  before  I  turn  in." 

He  went  outside  and  passed  along  into  the  yard,  that  was  bounded 
on  three  sides  by  pens  where  the  dogs  were  kept.  A  bull  terrier 
dying  of  gastritis  recognized  him  and  began  to  whimper  feebly. 

Marcus  paid  no  attention  to  the  dogs.  For  the  first  time  that 
evening  he  was  alone  and  could  give  vent  to  his  thoughts.  He 
took  a  couple  of  turns  up  and  down  the  yard,  then  suddenly  in  a 
low  voice  exclaimed : 

"You  fool,  you  fool,  Marcus  Schouler!  If  you'd  kept  Trina 
you'd  have  had  that  money.  You  might  have  had  it  yourself. 
You've  thrown  away  your  chance  in  life — to  give  up  the  girl,  yes — 
but  this"  he  stamped  his  foot  with  rage — "to  throw  five  thousand 
dollars  out  of  the  window — to  stuff  it  into  the  pockets  of  some  one 
else,  when  it  might  have  been  yours,  when  you  might  have  had 
Trina  and  the  money — and  all  for  what?  Because  we  were  pals. 
Oh,  'pals'  is  all  right — but  five  thousand  dollars — to  have  played  it// 
right  into  his  hands — God  damn  the  luck !" 


84  McTeague 


VIII 

THE  next  two  months  were  delightful.  Trina  and  McTeague 
saw  each  other  regularly,  three  times  a  week.  The  dentist  went 
over  to  B  Street  Sunday  and  Wednesday  afternoons  as  usual ;  but 
on  Fridays  it  was  Trina  who  came  to  the  city.  She  spent  the 
morning  between  nine  and  twelve  o'clock  down  town,  for  the  most 
part  in  the  cheap  department  stores,  doing  the  weekly  shopping  for 
herself  and  the  family.  At  noon  she  took  an  uptown  car  and  met 
McTeague  at  the  corner  of  Polk  Street.  The  two  lunched  together 
at  a  small  uptown  hotel  just  around  the  corner  on  Sutter  Street. 
They  were  given  a  little  room  to  themselves.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  delicious.  They  had  but  to  close  the  sliding  door  to 
shut  themselves  off  from  the  whole  world. 

Trina  would  arrive  breathless  from  her  raids  upon  the  bargain 
counters,  her  pale  cheeks  flushed,  her  hair  blown  about  her  face  and 
into  the  corners  of  her  lips,  her  mother's  net  reticule  stuffed  to 
bursting.  Once  in  their  tiny  private  room,  she  would  drop  into  her 
chair  with  a  little  groan. 

"Oh,  Mac,  I  am  so  tired ;  I've  just  been  all  over  town.  Oh,  it's 
good  to  sit  down.  Just  think,  I  had  to  stand  up  in  the  car  all  the 
way,  after  being  on  my  feet  the  whole  blessed  morning.  Look  here 
what  I've  bought.  Just  things  and  things.  Look,  there's  some 
dotted  veiling  I  got  for  myself;  see  now,  do  you  think  it  looks 
pretty?" — she  spread  it  over  her  face — "and  I  got  a  box  of  writing 
paper,  and  a  roll  of  crepe  paper  to  make  a  lamp  shade  for  the  front 
parlor;  and — what  do  you  suppose — I  saw  a  pair  of  Nottingham 
lace  curtains  for  forty-nine  cents;  isn't  that  cheap  ?  and  some  chenille 
portieres  for  two  and  a  half.  Now,  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
I  last  saw  you?  Did  Mr.  Heise  finally  get  up  enough  courage  to 
have  his  tooth  pulled  yet?"  Trina  took  off  her  hat  and  veil  and  re 
arranged  her  hair  before  the  looking-glass. 

"No,  no — not  yet.  I  went  down  to  the  sign  painter's  yesterday 
afternoon  to  see  about  that  big  .gold  tooth  for  a  sign.  It  costs  too 
much;  I  can't  get  it  yet  a  while.  There's  two  kinds,  one  German 
gilt  and  the  other  French  gilt;  but  the  German  gilt  is  no  good." 

McTeague  sighed,  and  wagged  his  head.     Even  Trina  and  the 


McTeague  85 

five  thousand  dollars  could  not  make  him  forget  this  one  unsatisfied 
longing. 

At  other  times  they  would  talk  at  length  over  their  plans,  while 
Trina  sipped  her  chocolate  and  McTeague  devoured  huge  chunks 
of  butterless  bread.  They  were  to  be  married  at  the  end  of  May, 
and  the  dentist  already  had  his  eye  on  a  couple  of  rooms,  part  of 
the  suite  of  a  bankrupt  photographer.  They  were  situated  in  the 
flat,  just  back  of  his  "Parlors,"  and  he  believed  the  photographer 
would  sublet  them  furnished. 

McTeague  and  Trina  had  no  apprehensions  as  to  their  finances. 
They  could  be  sure,  in  fact,  of  a  tidy  little  income.  The  dentist's 
practice  was  fairly  good,  and  they  could  count  upon  the  interest  of 
Trina's  five  thousand  dollars.  To  McTeague's  mind  this  interest 
seemed  wo  fully  small.  He  had  had  uncertain  ideas  about  that  five 
thousand  dollars;  had  imagined  that  they  would  spend  it  in  some 
lavish  fashion;  would  buy  a  house,  perhaps,  or  would  furnish  their 
new  rooms  with  overwhelming  luxury — luxury  that  implied  red 
velvet  carpets  and  continued  feasting.  The  old-time  miner's  idea 
of  wealth  easily  gained  and  quickly  spent  persisted  in  his  mind. 
But  when  Trina  had  begun  to  talk  of  investments  and  interests  and 
per  cents,  he  was  troubled  and  not  a  little  disappointed.  The  lump 
sum  of  five  thousand  dollars  was  one  thing,  a  miserable  little  twenty 
or  twenty-five  a  month  was  quite  another;  and  then  some  one  else 
had  the  money. 

"But,  don't  you  see,  Mac,"  explained  Trina,  "it's  ours  just 
the  same.  We  could  get  it  back  whenever  we  wanted  it;  and  then 
it's  the  reasonable  way  to  do.  We  mustn't  let  it  turn  our  heads, 
Mac,  dear,  like  that  man  that  spent  all  he  won  in  buying  more 
tickets.  How  foolish  we'd  feel  after  we'd  spent  it  all!  We  ought 
to  go  on  just  the  same  as  before ;  as  if  we  hadn't  won.  We  must  be 
sensible  about  it,  mustn't  we?" 

"Well,  well,  I  guess  perhaps  that's  right,"  the  dentist  would 
answer,  looking  slowly  about  on  the  floor. 

Just  what  should  ultimately  be  done  with  the  money  was  the 
subject  of  endless  discussion  in  the  Sieppe  family.  The  savings 
bank  would  allow  only  three  per  cent,  but  Trina's  parents  believed 
that  something  better  could  be  got. 

"There's  Uncle  Oelbermann,"  Trina  had  suggested,  remembering 
the  rich  relative  who  had  the  wholesale  toy  store  in  the  Mission. 

Mr.  Sieppe  struck  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  "Ah,  an  idea," 
he  cried.  In  the  end  an  agreement  was  made.  The  money 


86  McTeague 

was  invested  in  Mr.  Oelbermann's  business.  He  gave  Trina  six 
per  cent. 

Invested  in  this  fashion,  Trina's  winning  would  bring  in  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  month.  But,  besides  this,  Trina  had  her  own  little 
trade.  She  made  Noah's  ark  animals  for  Uncle  Oelbermann's  store. 
Trina's  ancestors  on  both  sides  were  German- Swiss,  and  some 
long-forgotten  forefather  of  the  sixteenth  century,  some  worsted- 
leggined  wood-carver  of  the  Tyrol,  had  handed  down  the  talent  of 
the  national  industry,  to  reappear  in  this  strangely  distorted  guise. 

She  made  Noah's  ark  animals,  whittling  them  out  of  a  block  of 
soft  wood  with  a  sharp  jack-knife,  the  only  instrument  she  used. 
Trina  was  very  proud  to  explain  her  work  to  McTeague  as  he  had 
already  explained  his  own  to  her. 

"You  see,  I  take  a  block  of  straight-grained  pine  and  cut  out 
the  shape,  roughly  at  first,  with  the  big  blade;  then  I  go  over  it  a 
second  time  with  the  little  blade,  more  carefully;  then  I  put  in  the 
ears  and  tail  with  a  drop  of  glue,  and  paint  it  with  a  'non-poisonous' 
paint — Vandyke  brown  for  the  horses,  foxes,  and  cows;  slate  gray 
for  the  elephants  and  camels ;  burnt  umber  for  the  chickens,  zebras, 
and  so  on ;  then,  last,  a  dot  of  Chinese  white  for  the  eyes,  and  there 
you  are,  all  finished.  They  sell  for  nine  cents  a  dozen.  Only  I  can't 
make  the  manikins." 

"The  manikins?" 

"The  little  figures,  you  know — Noah  and  his  wife,  and  Shem, 
and  all  the  others." 

It  was  true.  Trina  could  not  whittle  them  fast  enough  and 
cheap  enough  to  compete  with  the  turning  lathe,  that  could  throw 
off  whole  tribes  and  peoples  of  manikins  while  she  was  fashioning 
one  family.  Everything  else,  however,  she  made — the  ark  itself,  all 
windows  and  no  door;  the  box  in  which  the  whole  was  packed; 
even  down  to  pasting  on  the  label,  which  read,  "Made  in  France." 
She  earned  from  three  to  four  dollars  a  week. 

The  income  from  these  three  sources,  McTeague's  profession,  the 
interest  of  the  five  thousand  dollars,  and  Trina's  whittling,  made 
a  respectable  little  sum  taken  altogether.  Trina  declared  they  could 
even  lay  by  something,  adding  to  the  five  thousand  dollars  little  by 
little. 

It  soon  became  apparent  that  Trina  would  be  an  extraordinarily 
good  housekeeper.  Economy  was  her  strong  point.  A  good  deal  of 
peasant  blood  still  ran  undiluted  in  her  veins,  and  she  had  all  the 
instinct  of  a  hardy  and  penurious  mountain  race — the  instinct  which 


McTeague  87 

saves  without  any  thought,  without  idea  of  consequence — saving 
for  the  sake  of  saving,  hoarding  without  knowing  why.  Even  Mc 
Teague  did  not  know  how  closely  Trina  held  to  her  new-found 
wealth. 

But  they  did  not  always  pass  their  luncheon  hour  in  this  dis 
cussion  of  incomes  and  economies.  As  the  dentist  came  to  know  his 
little  woman  better  she  grew  to  be  more  and  more  of  a  puzzle  and 
a  joy  to  him.  She  would  suddenly  interrupt  a  grave  discourse  upon 
the  rents  of  rooms  and  the  cost  of  light  and  fuel  with  a  brusque 
outburst  of  affection  that  set  him  all  a-tremble  with  delight.  All  at 
once  she  would  set  down  her  chocolate,  and,  leaning  across  the  nar 
row  table,  would  exclaim : 

"Never  mind  all  that !  Oh,  Mac,  do  you  truly,  really  love  me — 
love  me  big?" 

McTeague  would  stammer  something,  gasping,  and  wagging  his 
head,  beside  himself  for  the  lack  of  words. 

(  "Old  bear,"  Trina  would  answer,  grasping  him  by  both  huge 
ears  ^and  swaying  his  head  from  side  to  side.  "Kiss  me,  then.  Tell 
me,  Mac,  did  you  think  any  less  of  me  that  first  time  I  let  you  kiss 
me  there  in  the  station?  Oh,  Mac,  dear,  what  a  funny  nose  you've 
got,  all  full  of  hairs  inside;  and,  Mac,  do  you  know  you've  got  a 
bald  spot — '  she  dragged  his  head  down  toward  her — "right  on 
the  top  of  your  head."  Then  she  would  seriously  kiss  the  bald  spot 
in  question,  declaring: 

"That'll  make  the  hair  grow." 

Trina  took  an  infinite  enjoyment  in  playing  with  McTeague's 
great  square-cut  head,  rumpling  his  hair  till  it  stood  on  end,  putting 
her  fingers  in  his  eyes,  or  stretching  his  ears  out  straight,  and  watch 
ing  the  effect  with  her  head  on  one  side.  It  was  like  a  little  child 
playing  with  some  gigantic,  good-natured  Saint  Bernard. 

One  particular  amusement  they  never  wearied  of.  The  two 
would  lean  across  the  table  toward  each  other,  McTeague  folding 
his  arms  under  his  breast.  Then  Trina,  resting  on  her  elbows, 
would  part  his  mustache — the  great  blond  mustache  of  a  viking— 
with  her  two  hands,  pushing  it  up  from  his  lips,  causing  his  face  to 
assume  the  appearance  of  a  Greek  mask.  She  would  curl  it  around 
either  forefinger,  drawing  it  to  a  fine  end.  Then  all  at  once  Mc 
Teague  would  make  a  fearful  snorting  noise  through  his  nose.  In 
variably — though  she  was  expecting  this,  though  it  was  part  of  the 
game — Trina  would  jump  with  a  stifled  shriek.  McTeague  would 
bellow  with  laughter  till  his  eyes  watered.  Then  they  would  recom- 


88  McTeague 

mence     upon    the    instant,     Trina    protesting    with    a    nervous 
tremulousness : 

"Now — now — now,  Mac,  don't;  you  scare  me  so." 

But  these  delicious  tete-d-tetes  with  Trina  were  offset  by  a  cer 
tain  coolness  that  Marcus  Schouler  began  to  affect  toward  the 
dentist.  At  first  McTeague  was  unaware  of  it;  but  by  this  time 
even  his  slow  wits  began  to  perceive  that  his  best  friend — his  "pal" 

was  not  the  same  to  him  as  formerly.    They  continued  to  meet  at 

lunch  nearly  every  day  but  Friday  at  the  car  conductors'  coffee- 
joint.  But  Marcus  was  sulky;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  that. 
He  avoided  talking  to  McTeague,  read  the  paper  continually,  an 
swering  the  dentist's  timid  efforts  at  conversation  in  gruff  mono 
syllables.  Sometimes,  even,  he  turned  sidewise  to  the  table  and 
talked  at  great  length  to  Heise  the  harness-maker,  whose  table  was 
next  to  theirs.  They  took  no  more  long  walks  together  when 
Marcus  went  out  to  exercise  the  dogs.  Nor  did  Marcus  ever  again 
recur  to  his  generosity  in  renouncing  Trina. 

One  Tuesday,  as  McTeague  took  his  place  at  the  table  in  the 
coffee- joint,  he  found  Marcus  already  there. 

"Hello,  Mark,"  said  the  dentist,  "you  here  already?" 

"Hello,"  returned  the  other,  indifferently,  helping  himself  to 
tomato  catsup.  There  was  a  silence.  After  a  long  while  Marcus 
suddenly  looked  up. 

"Say,  Mac,"  he  exclaimed,  "when  you  going  to  pay  me  that 
money  you  owe  me  ?" 

McTeague  was  astonished. 

"Huh?    What?    I  don't — do  I  owe  you  any  money,  Mark?" 

"Well,  you  owe  me  four  bits,"  returned  Marcus,  doggedly.  "I 
paid  for  you  and  Trina  that  day  at  the  picnic,  and  you  never  gave  it 
back." 

"Oh — oh!"  answered  McTeague,  in  distress.  "That's  so,  that's 
so.  I — you  ought  to  have  told  me  before.  Here's  your  money, 
and  I'm  obliged  to  you." 

"It  ain't  much,"  observed  Marcus  sullenly.  "But  I  need  all  I 
can  get  now-a-days." 

"Are  you — are  you  broke  ?"  inquired  McTeague. 

"And  I  ain't  saying  anything  about  your  sleeping  at  the  hos 
pital  that  night,  either,"  muttered  Marcus,  as  he  pocketed  the 


"Well — well — do  you  mean — should  I  have  paid  for  that?" 
"Well,  you'd  'a'  had  to  sleep  somewheres,  wouldn't  you  ?"  fl< 


McTeague  89 

out  Marcus.  "You'd  'a'  had  to  pay  half  a  dollar  for  a  bed  at  the 
flat." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  cried  the  dentist  hastily,  feeling  in  his 
pockets.  "I  don't  want  you  should  be  out  anything  on  my  account, 
old  man.  Here,  will  four  bits  do?" 

"I  don't  want  your  damn  money,"  shouted  Marcus  in  a  sudden 
rage,  throwing  back  the  coin.  "I  ain't  no  beggar." 

McTeague  was  miserable.    How  had  he  offended  his  pal? 

"Well,  I  want  you  should  take  it,  Mark,"  he  said,  pushing  it 
toward  him. 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  touch  your  money,"  exclaimed  the  other 
through  his  clinched  teeth,  white  with  passion.  "I've  been  played 
for  a  sucker  long  enough." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  lately,  Mark?"  remonstrated  Mc 
Teague.  "You've  got  a  grouch  about  something.  Is  there  anything 
I've  done?" 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  that's  all  right,"  returned  Marcus  as 
he  rose  from  the  table.  "That's  all  right.  I've  been  played 
for  a  sucker  long  enough,  that's  all.  I've  been  played  for  a 
sucker  long  enough."  He  went  away  with  a  parting  malevolent 
glance. 

At  the  corner  of  Polk  Street,  between  the  flat  and  the  car  con 
ductors'  coffee-joint,  was  Frenna's.  It  was  a  corner  grocery;  ad 
vertisements  for  cheap  butter  and  eggs,  painted  in  green  marking- 
ink  upon  wrapping  paper,  stood  about  on  the  sidewalk  outside.  The 
doorway  was  decorated  with  a  huge  Milwaukee  beer  sign.  Back 
of  the  store  proper  was  a  bar  where  white  sand  covered  the  floor. 
A  few  tables  and  chairs  were  scattered  here  and  there.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  gorgeously  colored  tobacco  advertisements  and  col 
ored  lithographs  of  trotting  horses.  On  the  wall  behind  the  bar  was 
a  model  of  a  full-rigged  ship  inclosed  in  a  bottle. 

It  was  at  this  place  that  the  dentist  used  to  leave  his  pitcher 
to  be  filled  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Since  his  engagement  to  Trina 
he  had  discontinued  this  habit.  However,  he  still  dropped  into 
Frenna's  one  or  two  nights  in  the  week.  He  spent  a  pleasant  hour 
there,  smoking  his  huge  porcelain  pipe  and  drinking  his  beer.  He 
never  joined  any  of  the  groups  of  piquet  players  around  the  tables. 
In  fact,  he  hardly  spoke  to  any  one  but  the  bartender  and  Marcus. 

For  Frenna's  was  one  of  Marcus  Schouler's  haunts ;  a  great  deal 
of  his  time  was  spent  there.  He  involved  himself  in  fearful  politi 
cal  and  social  discussions  with  Heise  the  harness-maker,  and  with 


o,o  McTeague 

one  or  two  old  Germans,  habitues  of  the  place.  These  discussions 
Marcus  carried  on,  as  was  his  custom,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  ges 
ticulating  fiercely,  banging  the  table  with  his  fists,  brandishing  the 
plates  and  glasses,  exciting  himself  with  his  own  clamor. 

On  a  certain  Saturday  evening,  a  few  days  after  the  scene  at 
the  coffee-joint,  the  dentist  bethought  him  to  spend  a  quiet  evening 
at  Frenna's.  He  had  not  been  there  for  some  time,  and,  besides  that, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  day  was  his  birthday.  He  would  permit 
himself  an  extra  pipe  and  a  few  glasses  of  beer.  When  McTeague 
entered  Frenna's  back  room  by  the  street  door,  he  found  Marcus 
and  Heise  already  installed  at  one  of  the  tables.  Two  or  three  of 
the  old  Germans  sat  opposite  them,  gulping  their  beer  from  time  to 
time.  Heise  was  smoking  a  cigar,  but  Marcus  had  before  him  his 
fourth  whiskey  cocktail.  At  the  moment  of  McTeague's  entrance 
Marcus  had  the  floor. 

"It  can't  be  proven,"  he  was  yelling.  "I  defy  any  sane  politician 
whose  eyes  are  not  blinded  by  party  prejudices,  whose  opinions  are 
not  warped  by  a  personal  bias,  to  substantiate  such  a  statement. 
Look  at  your  facts,  look  at  your  figures.  I  am  a  free  American 
citizen,  ain't  I?  I  pay  my  taxes  to  support  a  good  government, 
don't  I?  It's  a  contract  between  me  and  the  Government,  ain't  it? 
Well,  then,  by  damn !  if  the  authorities  do  not  or  will  not  afford  me 
protection  for  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  then  my 
obligations  are  at  an  end ;  I  withhold  my  taxes.  I  do — I  do — I  say 
I  do.  What?"  He  glared  about  him,  seeking  opposition. 

"That's  nonsense,"  observed  Heise,  quietly.  "Try  it  once ;  you'll 
get  jugged."  But  this  observation  of  the  harness-maker's  roused 
Marcus  to  the  last  pitch  of  frenzy. 

"Yes,  ah,  yes !"  he  shouted,  rising  to  his  feet,  shaking  his  finger 
in  the  other's  face.  "Yes,  I'd  go  to  jail;  but  because  I — I  am 
crushed  by  a  tyranny,  does  that  make  the  tyranny  right?  Does 
might  make  right  ?" 

"You  must  make  less  noise  in  here,  Mister  Schouler,"  said 
Frenna,  from  behind  the  bar. 

"Well,  it  makes  me  mad,"  answered  Marcus,  subsiding  into  a 
growl  and  resuming  his  chair.  "Hullo,  Mac." 

"Hullo,  Mark." 

But  McTeague's  presence  made  Marcus  uneasy,  rousing  in  him 
at  once  a  sense  of  wrong.  He  twisted  to  and  fro  in  his  chair, 
shrugging  first  one  shoulder  and  then  another.  Quarrelsome  at  all 
times,  the  heat  of  the  previous  discussion  had  awakened  within  him 


McTeague  9 1 

all  his  natural  combativeness.  Besides  this,  he  was  drinking  his 
fourth  cocktail. 

McTeague  began  filling  his  big  porcelain  pipe.  He  lighted  it, 
blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  room,  and  settled  himself  com 
fortably  in  his  chair.  The  smoke  of  his  cheap  tobacco  drifted  into 
the  faces  of  the  group  at  the  adjoining  table,  and  Marcus  strangled 
and  coughed.  Instantly  his  eyes  flamed. 

"Say,  for  God's  sake,"  he  vociferated,  "choke  off  on  that  pipe! 
If  you've  got  to  smoke  rope  like  that,  smoke  it  in  a  crowd  of  muck 
ers  ;  don't  come  here  among  gentlemen." 

"Shut  up,  Schouler !"  observed  Heise  in  a  low  voice. 

McTeague  was  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack.  He 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  stared  blankly  at  Marcus;  his 
lips  moved,  but  he  said  no  word.  Marcus  turned  his  back  on  him, 
and  the  dentist  resumed  his  pipe. 

But  Marcus  was  far  from  being  appeased.  McTeague  could  not 
hear  the  talk  that  followed  between  him  and  the  harness-maker, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  Marcus  was  telling  Heise  of  some  injury, 
some  grievance,  and  that  the  latter  was  trying  to  pacify  him.  All 
at  once  their  talk  grew  louder.  Heise  laid  a  retaining  hand  upon  his 
companion's  coat  sleeve,  but  Marcus  swung  himself  around  in  his 
chair,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  on  McTeague,  cried  as  if  in  answer  to 
some  protestation  on  the  part  of  Heise : 

"All  I  know  is  that  I've  been  soldiered  out  of  five  thousand 
dollars." 

McTeague  gaped  at  him,  bewildered.  He  removed  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth  a  second  time,  and  stared  at  Marcus  with  eyes  full  of 
trouble  and  perplexity. 

"If  I  had  my  rights,"  cried  Marcus,  bitterly,  "I'd  have  part  of 
that  money.  It's  due  me — it's  only  justice."  The  dentist  still  kept 
silence. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,"  Marcus  continued,  addressing  him 
self  directly  to  McTeague,  "you  wouldn't  have  had  a  cent  of  it — 
no,  not  a  cent.  Where's  my  share,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Where  do  I 
come  in?  No,  I  ain't  in  it  any  more.  I've  been  played  for  a 
sucker,  an'  now  that  you've  got  all  you  can  out  of  me,  now  that 
you've  done  me  out  of  my  girl  and  out  of  my  money,  you  give  me 
the  go-by.  Why,  where  would  you  have  been  to-day  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me?"  Marcus  shouted  in  a  sudden  exasperation,  "You'd  a 
been  plugging  teeth  at  two  bits  an  hour.  Ain't  you  got  any  grati 
tude?  Ain't  you  got  any  sense  of  decency?" 


^2  McTeague 

"Ah,  hold  up,  Schouler,"  grumbled  Heise.  "You  don't  want  to 
get  into  a  row." 

"No,  I  don't,  Heise/'  returned  Marcus,  with  a  plaintive,  ag 
grieved  air.  "But  it's  too  much  sometimes  when  you  think  of  it. 
He  stole  away  my  girl's  affections,  and  now  that  he's  rich  and 
prosperous,  and  has  got  five  thousand  dollars  that  I  might  have  had, 
he  gives  me  the  go-by;  he's  played  me  for  a  sucker.  Look  here," 
he  cried,  turning  again  to  McTeague,  "do  I  get  any  of  that  money  ?" 

"It  ain't  mine  to  give,"  answered  McTeague.  "You're  drunk, 
that's  what  you  are." 

"Do  I  get  any  of  that  money?"  cried  Marcus,  persistently. 

The  dentist  shook  his  head.     "No,  you  don't  get  any  of  it." 

"Now — now,"  clamored  the  other,  turning  to  the  harness-maker, 
as  though  this  explained  everything.  "Look  at  that,  look  at  that. 
Well,  I've  done  with  you  from  now  on."  Marcus  had  risen  to  his 
feet  by  this  time  and  made  as  if  to  leave,  but  at  every  instant  he 
came  back,  shouting  his  phrases  into  McTeague's  face,  moving  off 
again  as  he  spoke  the  last  words,  in  order  to  give  them  better 
effect. 

"This  settles  it  right  here.  I've  done  with  you.  Don't  you  ever 
dare  speak  to  me  again" — his  voice  was  shaking  with  fury — "and 
don't  you  sit  at  my  table  in  the  restaurant  again.  I'm  sorry  I  ever 
lowered  myself  to  keep  company  with  such  dirt.  Ah,  one-horse 
dentist!  Ah,  ten-cent  zinc-plugger — hoodlum — mucker!  Get  your 
damn  smoke  outa  my  face." 

Then  matters  reached  a  sudden  climax.  In  his  agitation  the  den 
tist  had  been  pulling  hard  on  his  pipe,  and  as  Marcus  for  the  last 
time  thrust  his  face  close  to  his  own,  McTeague,  in  opening  his 
lips  to  reply,  blew  a  stifling,  acrid  cloud  directly  in  Marcus  Schou- 
ler's  eyes.  Marcus  knocked  the  pipe  from  his  fingers  with  a  sudden 
flash  of  his  hand;  it  spun  across  the  room  and  broke  into  a  dozen 
fragments  in  a  far  corner. 

McTeague  rose  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  wide.  But  as  yet  he  was 
not  angry,  only  surprised,  taken  all  aback  by  the  suddenness  of 
Marcus  Schouler's  outbreak  as  well  as  by  its  unreasonableness. 
Why  had  Marcus  broken  his  pipe?  What  did  it  all  mean,  any 
way?  As  he  rose  the  dentist  made  a  vague  motion  with  his  right 
hand.  Did  Marcus  misinterpret  it  as  a  gesture  of  menace?  He 
sprang  back  as  though  avoiding  a  blow.  All  at  once  there  was  a 
cry.  Marcus  had  made  a  quick,  peculiar  motion,  swinging  his  arm 
upward  with  a  wide  and  sweeping  gesture;  his  jack-knife  lay  open 


McTeague  93 

in  his  palm ;  it  shot  forward  as  he  flung  it,  glinted  sharply  by  Mc- 
Teague's  head,  and  struck  quivering  into  the  wall  behind. 

A  sudden  chill  ran  through  the  room;  the  others  stood  trans 
fixed,  as  at  the  swift  passage  of  some  cold  and  deadly  wind.  Death 
had  stooped  there  for  an  instant,  had  stooped  and  passed,  leaving  a 
trail  of  terror  and  confusion.  Then  the  door  leading  to  the  street 
slammed  ;  Marcus  had  disappeared. 

Thereon  a  great  babel  of  exclamation  arose.  The  tension  of  that 
all  but  fatal  instant  snapped,  and  speech  became  once  more  possible. 

"He  would  have  knifed  you." 

"Narrow  escape." 

"What  kind  of  a  man  do  you  call  thatf" 

"  'Tain't  his  fault  he  ain't  a  murderer." 

"I'd  have  him  up  for  it." 

"And  they  two  have  been  the  greatest  kind  of  friends." 

"He  didn't  touch  you,  did  he  ?" 

"No— no— no." 

"What  a — what  a  devil !  What  treachery !  A  regular  greaser 
trick!" 

"Look  out  he  don't  stab  you  in  the  back.  If  that's  the  kind  of 
man  he  is,  you  never  can  tell." 

Frenna  drew  the  knife  from  the  wall. 

"Guess  I'll  keep  this  toad-stabber,"  he  observed.  "That  fellow 
won't  come  round  for  it  in  a  hurry;  good-sized  blade,  too."  The 
group  examined  it  with  intense  interest. 

"Big  enough  to  let  the  life  out  of  any  man,"  observed  Heise. 

"What — what — what  did  he  do  it  for?"  stammered  McTeague. 
"I  got  no  quarrel  with  him." 

He  was  puzzled  and  harassed  by  the  strangeness  of  it  all.  Mar 
cus  would  have  killed  him ;  had  thrown  his  knife  at  him  in  the  true, 
uncanny  "greaser"  style.  It  was  inexplicable.  McTeague  sat  down 
again,  looking  stupidly  about  on  the  floor.  In  a  corner  of  the  room 
his  eye  encountered  his  broken  pipe,  a  dozen  little  fragments  of 
painted  porcelain  and  the  stem  of  cherry  wood  and  amber. 

At  that  sight  his  tardy_jiLcath,  ever  lagging  behind  the  original 
affront,  suddenly  blazed  up.  Instantly  his  huge  jaws  clicked  together. 

"He  can't  make  small  of  me,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly.  I'll 
show  Marcus  Schouler — I'll  show  him — I'll — " 

He  got  up  and  clapped  on  his  hat. 

'Now,  Doctor,"  remonstrated  Heise,  standing  between  him  and 
the  door,  "don't  go  make  a  fool  of  yourself." 


94  McTeague 

"Let  'urn  alone,"  joined  in  Frenna,  catching  the  dentist  by  the 
arm ;  "he's  full,  anyhow." 

"He  broke  my  pipe,"  answered  McTeague. 

It  was  this  that  had  roused  him.  The  thrown  knife,  the  attempt 
'  on  his  life,  was  beyond  his  solution;  but  the  breaking  of  his  pipe 
he  understood  clearly  enough. 

'Til  show  him,"  he  exclaimed. 

As  though  they  had  been  little  children,  McTeague  set  Frenna 
and  the  harness-maker  aside,  and  strode  out  of  the  door  like  a 
raging  elephant.  Heise  stood  rubbing  his  shoulder. 

"Might  as  well  try  to  stop  a  locomotive,"  he  muttered.  "The 
man's  made  of  iron." 

Meanwhile,  McTeague  went  storming  up  the  street  toward  the 
flat,  wagging  his  head  and  grumbling  to  himself.  Ah,  Marcus 
would  break  his  pipe,  would  he?  Ah,  he  was  a  zinc-plugger,  was 
he?  He'd  show  Marcus  Schouler.  No  one  should  make  small  of 
him.  He  tramped  up  the  stairs  to  Marcus's  room.  The  door  was 
locked.  The  dentist  put  one  enormous  hand  on  the  knob  and  pushed 
the  door  in,  snapping  the  wood-work,  tearing  off  the  lock.  No 
body — the  room  was  dark  and  empty.  Never  mind,  Marcus  would 
have  to  come  home  some  time  that  night.  McTeague  would  go 
down  and  wait  for  him  in  his  "Parlors."  He  was  bound  to  hear 
him  as  he  came  up  the  stairs. 

As  McTeague  reached  his  room  he  stumbled  over,  in  the  dark 
ness,  a  big  packing-box  that  stood  in  the  hallway  just  outside  his 
door.  Puzzled,  he  stepped  over  it,  and,  lighting  the  gas  in  his 
room,  dragged  it  inside  and  examined  it. 

It  was  addressed  to  him.  What  could  it  mean?  He  was  ex 
pecting  nothing.  Never  since  he  had  first  furnished  his  room  had 
packing-cases  been  left  for  him  in  this  fashion.  No  mistake  was 
possible.  There  were  his  name  and  address  unmistakably.  "Dr. 
McTeague,  dentist — Polk  Street,  San  Francisco,  Cal.,"  and  the  red 
Wells-Fargo  tag. 

Seized  with  the  joyful  curiosity  of  an  overgrown  boy,  he  pried 

off  the  boards  with  the  corner  of  his  fire-shovel.     The  case  was 

/"stuffed  full  of  excelsior.     On  the  top  lay  an  envelope  addressed  to 

/    him  in  Trina's  handwriting.    He  opened  it  and  read :  "For  my  dear 

Mac's  birthday,  from  Trina ;"  and  below,  in  a  kind  of  postscript, 

"The  man  will  be  round  to-morrow  to  put  it  in  place."     McTeague 

tore  away  the  excelsior.     Suddenly  he  uttered  an  exclamation. 

It  was  the  Tooth — the  famous  golden  molar  with  its  huge  prongs 


McTeague  95 

— his  sign,  his  ambition,  the  one  unrealized  dream  of  his  life;  and 
it  was  French  gilt,  too,  not  the  cheap  German  gilt  that  was  no 
good.  Ah,  what  a  dear  little  woman  was  this  Trina,  to  keep  so 
quiet,  to  remember  his  birthday! 

"Ain't  she — ain't  she  just  a — just  a  jeivel,"  exclaimed  McTeague 
under  his  breath,  "a  jewel — yes,  just  a  jewel;  that's  the  word." 

Very  carefully  he  removed  the  rest  of  the  excelsior,  and  lifting 
the  ponderous  Tooth  from  its  box,  set  it  upon  the  marble-top  centre - 
table.  How  immense  it  looked  in  that  little  room !  The  thing  was 
tremendous,  overpowering — the  tooth  of  a  gigantic  fossil,  golden 
and  dazzling.  Beside  it  everything  seemed  dwarfed.  Even  Mc 
Teague  himself,  big-boned  and  enormous  as  he  was,  shrank  and 
dwindled  in  the  presence  of  the  monster.  As  for  an  instant  he  bore 
it  in  his  hands,  it  was  like  a  puny  Gulliver  struggling  with  the 
molar  of  some  vast  Brobdingnag. 

The  dentist  circled  about  the  golden  wonder,  gasping  with  de 
light  and  stupefaction,  touching  it  gingerly  with  his  hands  as  if  it 
were  something  sacred.  At  every  moment  his  thought  returned  to 
Trina.  No,  never  was  there  such  a  little  woman  as  his — the  very 
thing  he  wanted — how  had  she  remembered?  And  the  money, 
where  had  that  come  from?  No  one  knew  better  than  he  how  ex 
pensive  were  these  signs;  not  another  dentist  on  Polk  Street  could 
afford  one.  Where,  then,  had  Trina  found  the  money?  It  came 
out  of  her  five  thousand  dollars,  no  doubt. 

But  what  a  wonderful,  beautiful  tooth  it  was,  to  be  sure,  bright 
as  a  mirror,  shining  there  in  its  coat  of  French  gilt,  as  if  with  a  light 
of  its  own !  No  danger  of  that  tooth  turning  black  with  the  weather, 
as  did  the  cheap  German  gilt  impostures.  What  would  that  other 
dentist,  that  poser,  that  rider  of  bicycles,  that  courser  of  greyhounds, 
say  when  he  should  see  this  marvelous  molar  run  out  from  Mc- 
Teague's  bay  window  like  a  flag  of  defiance?  No  doubt  he  would 
suffer  veritable  convulsions  of  envy;  would  be  positively  sick  with 
jealousy.  If  McTeague  could  only  see  his  face  at  the  moment! 

For  a  whole  hour  the  dentist  sat  there  in  his  little  "Parlor," 
gazing  ecstatically  at  his  treasure,  dazzled,  supremely  content.  The 
whole  room  took  on  a  different  aspect  because  of  it.  The  stone  pug 
dog  before  the  little  stove  reflected  it  in  his  protruding  eyes;  the 
canary  woke  and  chittered  feebly  at  this  new  gilt,  so  much  brighter 
than  the  bars  of  its  little  prison.  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  in  the  steel 
engraving,  sitting  in  the  heart  of  his  court,  seemed  to  ogle  the  thing 
out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye,  while  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  unused 


9  6  McTeague 

rifle  manufacturer's  calendar  seemed  to  fade  and  pale  in  the  bril 
liance  of  this  greater  glory. 

At  length,  long  after  midnight,  the  dentist  started  to  go  to  bed, 
undressing  himself  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  great  tooth.  All 
at  once  he  heard  Marcus  Schouler's  foot  on  the  stairs;  he  started 
up  with  his  fists  clinched,  but  immediately  dropped  back  upon  the 
bed-lounge  with  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

He  was  in  no  truculent  state  of  mind  now.  He  could  not  rein 
state  himself  in  that  mood  of  wrath  wherein  he  had  left  the  corner 
grocery.  The  tooth  had  changed  all  that.  What  was  Marcus 
Schouler's  hatred  to  him,  who  had  Trina's  affection?  What  did  he 
care  about  a  broken  pipe  now  that  he  had  the  tooth?  Let  him  go. 
As  Frenna  said,  he  was  not  worth  it.  He  heard  iMarcus  come  out 
into  the  hall,  shouting  aggrievedly  to  any  one  within  sound  of  his 
voice : 

"An'  now  he  breaks  into  my  room — into  my  room,  by  damn! 
How  do  I  know  how  many  things  he's  stolen  ?  It's  come  to  stealing 
from  me,  now,  has  it?"  He  went  into  his  room,  banging  his  splin 
tered  door. 

McTeague  looked  upward  at  the  ceiling,  in  the  direction  of  the 
voice,  muttering: 

"Ah,  go  to  bed,  you." 

He  went  to  bed  himself,  turning  out  the  gas,  but  leaving  the 
window-curtains  up  so  that  he  could  see  the  tooth  the  last  thing 
before  he  went  to  sleep  and  the  first  thing  as  he  arose  in  the  morn 
ing. 

But  he  was  restless  during  the  night.  Every  now  and  then  he 
was  awakened  by  noises  to  which  he  had  long  since  become  accus 
tomed.  Now  it  was  the  cackling  of  the  geese  in  the  deserted  mar 
ket  across  the  street;  now  it  was  the  stoppage  of  the  cable,  the 
sudden  silence  coming  almost  like  a  shock;  and  now  it  was  the 
infuriated  barking  of  the  dogs  in  the  back  yard — Alec,  the  Irish 
setter,  and  the  collie  that  belonged  to  the  branch  post-offic  raging 
at  each  other  through  the  fence,  snarling  tljeir  endless  hatred  into 
each  other's  faces.  As  often  as  he  woke,  McTeague  turned  and 
looked  for  the  tooth,  with  a  sudden  suspicion  that  he  had  only  that 
moment  dreamed  the  whole  business.  But  he  always  found  it— 
Trina's  gift,  his  birthday  present  from  his  little  woman — a  huge, 
vague  bulk,  looming  there  through  the  half  darkness  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  shining  dimly  out  as  if  with  some  mysterious  light  of 
its  own. 


McTeague  97 


IX 

TRINA  and  McTeague  were  married  on  the  first  day  of  June,  in 
the  photographer's  rooms  that  the  dentist  had  rented.  All  through 
May  the  Sieppe  household  had  been  turned  upside  down.  The 
little  box  of  a  house  vibrated  with  excitement  and  confusion,  for 
not  only  were  the  preparations  for  Trina's  marriage  to  be  made, 
but  also  the  preliminaries  were  to  be  arranged  for  the  hegira  of 
the  entire  Sieppe  family. 

They  were  to  move  to  the  squthern  part  of  the  State  the  day 
after  Trina's  marriage,  Mr.  Sieppe  having  bought  a  third  interest 
in  an  upholstering  business  in  the  suburbs  of  Los  Angeles.  It  was 
possible  ihajLMarcus  Schouler  would  go  with  them. 

Not  Stanle^  penetrating  for  the  first  time  into  the  Dark  Con 
tinent,  not  Napoleon  leading  his  army  across  the  Alps,  was  more 
weighted  with  responsibility,  more  burdened  with  care,  more  over 
come  with  the  sense  of  the  importance  of  his  undertaking,  than  was 
Mr.  Sieppe  during  this  period  of  preparation.  From  dawn  to  dark, 
from  dark  to  early  dawn,  he  toiled  and  planned  and  fretted,  organ 
izing  and  reorganizing,  projecting  and  devising.  The  trunks  were 
lettered  A,  B,  and  C,  the  packages  and  smaller  bundles  numbered. 
Each  member  of  the  family  had  his  especial  duty  to  perform,  his 
particular  bundles  to  oversee.  Not  a  detail  was  forgotten — fares, 
prices,  and  tips  were  calculated  to  two  places  of  decimals.  Even 
the  amount  of  food  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  carry  for  the  black 
greyhound  was  determined.  Mrs.  Sieppe  was  to  look  after  the 
lunch,  "der  gomisariat."  Mr.  Sieppe  would  assume  charge  of  the 
checks,  the  money,  the  tickets,  and,  of  course,  general  supervision. 
The  twins  would  be  under  the  command  of  Owgooste,  who,  in  turn, 
would  report  for  orders  to  his  father. 

Day  in  and  day  out  these  minutiae  were  rehearsed.  The  children 
were  drilled  in  their  parts  with  a  military  exactitude;  obedience 
and  punctuality  became  cardinal  virtues.  The  vast  importance  of 
the  undertaking  was  insisted  upon  with  scrupulous  iteration.  It 
was  a  manoeuvre,  an  army  changing  its  base  of  operations,  a  verita 
ble  tribal  migration. 

E— III— NORRIS 


9  8  McTeague 

On  the  other  hand,  Trina's  little  room  was  the  centic  .around 
which  revolved  another  and  different  order  of  things.  The  dress 
maker  came  and  went,  congratulatory  visitors  invaded  the  little 
front  parlor,  the  chatter  of  unfamiliar  voices  resounded  from  the 
front  steps ;  bonnet  boxes  and  yards  of  dress  goods  littered  the  beds 
and  chairs ;  wrapping  paper,  tissue  paper,  and  bits  of  string  strewed 
the  floor;  a  pair  of  white  satin  slippers  stood  on  a  corner  of  the 
toilet  table;  lengths  of  white  veiling,  like  a  snow-flurry,  buried  the 
little  work-table;  and  a  mislaid  box  of  artificial  orange  blossoms 
was  finally  discovered  behind  the  bureau. 

The  two  systems  of  operation  often  clashed  and  tangled.  Mrs. 
Sieppe  was  found  by  her  harassed  husband  helping  Trina  with  the 
waist  of  her  gown  when  she  should  have  been  slicing  cold  chicken 
in  the  kitchen.  Mr.  Sieppe  packed  his  frock  coat,  which  he  would 
have  to  wear  at  the  wedding,  at  the  very  bottom  of  "Trunk  C." 
The  minister,  who  called  to  offer  his  congratulations  and  to  make 
arrangements,  was  mistaken  for  the  expressman. 

McTeague  came  and  went  furtively,  dizzied  and  made  uneasy 
by  all  this  bustle.  He  got  in  the  way;  he  trod  upon  and  tore 
breadths  of  silk;  he  tried  to  help  carry  the  packing-boxes,  and 
broke  the  hall  gas  fixture;  he  came  in  upon  Trina  and  the  dress 
maker  at  an  ill-timed  moment,  and,  retiring  precipitately,  over 
turned  the  piles  of  pictures  stacked  in  the  hall. 

There  was  an  incessant  going  and  coming  at  every  moment  of 
the  day,  a  great  calling  up  and  down  stairs,  a  shouting  from  room 
to  room,  an  opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  and  an  intermittent 
sound  of  hammering  from  the  laundry,  where  Mr.  Sieppe  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  labored  among  the  packing-boxes.  The  twins  clattered 
about  on  the  carpetless  floors  of  the  denuded  rooms.  Owgooste 
was  smacked  from  hour  to  hour,  and  wept  upon  the  front  stairs; 
the  dressmaker  called  over  the  banisters  for  a  hot  flatiron ;  express 
men  tramped  up  and  down  the  stairway.  Mrs.  Sieppe  stopped  in 
the  preparation  of  the  lunches  to  call  "Hoop,  Hoop"  to  the  grey 
hound,  throwing  lumps  of  coal.  The  dog-wheel  creaked,  the  front 
door  bell  rang,  delivery  wagons  rumbled  away,  windows  rattled — 
the  little  house  was  in  a  positive  uproar. 

Almost  every  day  of  the  week  now  Trina  was  obliged  to  run 
over  to  town  and  meet  McTeague.  No  more  philandering  over  their 
lunch  now-a-days.  It  was  business  now.  They  haunted  the  house- 
furnishing  floors  of  the  great  department  houses,  inspecting  and 
pricing  ranges,  hardware,  china,  and  the  like.  They  rented  the 


McTeague  99 

photographer's  rooms  furnished,  and  fortunately  only  the  kitchen 
and  dining-room  utensils  had  to  be  bought. 

The  money  for  this  as  well  as  for  her  trousseau  came  out  of 
Trina's  five  thousand  dollars.  For  it  had  been  finally  decided  that 
two  hundred  dollars  of  this  amount  should  be  devoted  to  the  estab 
lishment  of  the  new  household.  Now  that  Trina  had  made  her  great 
winning,  Mr.  Sieppe  no  longer  saw  the  necessity  of  dowering  her 
further,  especially  when  he  considered  the  enormous  expense  to 
which  he  would  be  put  by  the  voyage  of  his  own  family. 

It  had  been  a  dreadful  wrench  for  Trina  to  break  in  upon  her 
precious  five  thousand.  She  clung  to  this  sum  with  a  tenacity  that 
was  surprising;  it  had  become  for  her  a  thing  miraculous,  a  god- 
from-the-machine,  suddenly  descending  upon  the  stage  of  her  hum 
ble  little  life;  she  regarded  it  as  something  almost  sacred  and  in 
violable.  Never,  never  should  a  penny  of  it  be  spent.  Before  she 
could  be  induced  to  part  with  two  hundred  dollars  of  it,  more  than 
one  scene  had  been  enacted  between  her  and  her  parents. 

Did  Trina  pay  for  the  golden  tooth  out  of  this  two  hundred? 
Later  on,  the  dentist  often  asked  her  about  it,  but  Trina  invariably 
laughed  in  his  face,  declaring  that  it  was  her  secret.  McTeague 
never  found  out. 

One  day  during  this  period  McTeague  told  Trina  about  his  af 
fair  with  Marcus.  Instantly  she  was  aroused. 

"He  threw  his  knife  at  you !  The  coward !  He  wouldn't  have 
dared  stand  up  to  you  like  a  man.  Oh,  Mac,  suppose  he  had  hit 
you  ?" 

"Came  within  an  inch  of  my  head,"  put  in  McTeague,  proudly. 

"Think  of  it!"  she  gasped;  "and  he  wanted  part  of  my  money. 
Well,  I  do  like  his  cheek ;  part  of  my  five  thousand !  Why,  it's  mine, 
every  single  penny  of  it.  Marcus  hasn't  the  least  bit  of  right  to  it. 
It's  mine,  mine — I  mean,  it's  ours,  Mac,  dear." 

The  elder  Sieppes,  however,  made  excuses  for  Marcus.  He 
had  probably  been  drinking  a  good  deal  and  didn't  know  what  he 
was  about.  He  had  a  dreadful  temper,  anyhow.  Maybe  he  only 
wanted  to  scare  McTeague. 

The  week  before  the  marriage  the  two  men  were  reconciled. 
Mrs.  Sieppe  brought  them  together  in  the  front  parlor  of  the  B 
Street  house. 

"Now,  you  two  fellers,  don't  be  dot  foolish.  Schake  hands  and 
maig  ut  oop,  soh." 

Marcus   muttered   an  apology.     McTeague,   miserably   embar- 


IOO  McTeague 

rassed,  rolled  his  eyes  about  the  room,  muttering,  "That's  all  right— 
that's  all  right— that's  all  right." 

However,  when  it  was  proposed  that  Marcus  should  be  Mc- 
Teague's  best  man,  he  flashed  out  again  with  renewed  violence. 
Ah,  no!  ah,  no!  He'd  make  up  with  the  dentist  now  that  he  was 
going  away,  but  he'd  be  damned — yes.  he  would — before  he'd  be 
his  best  man.  That  was  rubbing  it  in.  Let  him  get  Old  Grannis. 

"I'm  friends  with  um  all  right,"  vociferated  Marcus,  "but  I'll 
not  stand  up  with  um.  I'll  not  be  anybody's  best  man,  I  won't." 

The  wedding  was  to  be  very  quiet ;  Trina  preferred  it  that  way. 
McTeague  would  invite  only  Miss  Baker  and  Heise  the  harness- 
maker.  The  Sieppes  sent  cards  to  Selina,  who  was  counted  on  to 
furnish  the  music ;  to  Marcus,  of  course ;  and  to  Uncle  Oelbermann. 

At  last  the  great  day,  the  first  of  June,  arrived.  The  Sieppes 
had  packed  their  last  box  and  had  strapped  the  last  trunk.  Trina's 
two  trunks  had  already  been  sent  to  her  new  home — the  remodeled 
photographer's  rooms.  The  B  Street  house  was  deserted ;  the 
whole  family  came  over  to  the  city  on  the  last  day  of  May  and 
stopped  overnight  at  one  of  the  cheap  downtown  hotels.  Trina 
would  be  married  the  following  evening,  and  immediately  after  the 
wedding  supper  the  Sieppes  would  leave  for  the  South. 

McTeague  spent  the  day 'in  a  fever  of  agitation,  frightened  out 
of  his  wits  each  time  that  Old  Grannis  left  his  elbow. 

Old  Grannis  was  delighted  beyond  measure  at  the  prospect  of 
acting  the  part  of  best  man  in  the  ceremony.  This  wedding  in 
which  he  was  to  figure  filled  his  mind  with  vague  ideas  and  half- 
formed  thoughts.  He  found  himself  continually  wondering  what 
Miss  Baker  would  think  of  it.  During  all  that  day  he  was  in  a 
reflective  mood. 

"Marriage  is  a — a  noble  institution,  is  it  not,  Doctor?"  he  ob 
served  to  McTeague.  "The— the  foundation  of  society.  It  is  not 
good  that  man  should  be  alone.  No,  no/'  he  added,  pensively,  "it 
is  not  good." 

"Huh?  Yes,  yes,"  McTeague  answered,  his  eyes  in  the  air, 
hardly  hearing  him.  "Do  you  think  the  rooms  are  all  right  ?  Let's 
go  in  and  look  at  them  again." 

They  went  down  the  hall  to  where  the  new  rooms  were  situated, 
and  the  dentist  inspected  them  for  the  twentieth  time. 

The  rooms  were  three  in  number— first,  the  sitting-room,  which 
was  also  the  dining-room;  then  the  bedroom,  and  back  of  this  the 
tiny  kitchen. 


McTeague  101 

The  sitting-room  was  particularly  charming.  Clean  matting 
covered  the  floor,  and  two  or  three  bright-colored  rugs  were  scat 
tered  here  and  there.  The  backs  of  the  chairs  were  hung  with 
knitted  worsted  tidies,  very  gay.  The  bay  window  should  have  been 
occupied  by  Trina's  sewing  machine,  but  this  had  been  moved  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room  to  give  place  to  a  little  black  walnut 
table  with  spiral  legs,  before  which  the  pair  were  to  be  married.  In 
one  corner  stood  the  parlor  melodeon,  a  family  possession  of  the 
Sieppes,  but  given  now  to  Trina  as  one  of  her  parents'  wedding 
presents.  Three  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls.  Two  were  compan 
ion  pieces.  One  of  these  represented  a  little  boy  wearing  huge 
spectacles  and  trying  to  smoke  an  enormous  pipe.  This  was  called 
"I'm  Grandpa,"  the  title  being  printed  in  large  black  letters;  the 
companion  picture  was  entitled  "I'm  Grandma,"  a  little  girl  in  cap 
and  "specs,"  wearing  mitts,  and  knitting.  These  pictures  were 
hung  on  either  side  of  the  mantelpiece.  The  other  picture  was  quite 
an  affair,  very  large  and  striking.  It  was  a  colored  lithograph  of 
two  little  golden-haired  girls  in  their  nightgowns.  They  were 
kneeling  down  and  saying  their  prayers ;  their  eyes — very  large  and 
very  blue — rolled  upward.  This  picture  had  for  name  "Faith," 
and  was  bordered  with  a  red  plush  mat  and  a  frame  of  imitation 
beaten  brass. 

A  door  hung  with  chenille  portieres — a  bargain  at  two  dollars 
and  a  half — admitted  one  to  the  bedroom.  The  bedroom  could 
boast  a  carpet,  three-ply  ingrain,  the  design  being  bunches  of  red 
and  green  flowers  in  yellow  baskets  on  a  white  ground.  The  wall 
paper  was  admirable — hundreds  and  hundreds  of  tiny  Japanese, 
mandarins,  all  identically  alike,  helping  hundreds  of  ~aTm6ncT-eyed 
ladies  into  hundreds  of  impossible  junks,  while  hundreds  of  bamboo 
palms  overshadowed  thTpaTr7~and  hundreds  of  long-legged  storks 
trailed  contemptuously  away  from  the  scene.  This  room  was  pro 
lific  in  pictures.  Most  of  them  were  framed  colored  prints  from 
Christmas  editions  of  the  London  "Graphic"  and  "Illustrated 
News,"  the  subject  of  each  picture  inevitably  involving  very  alert 
fox  terriers  and  very  pretty  moon-faced  little  girls. 

Back  of  the  bedroom  was  the  kitchen,  a  creation  of  Trina's,  a 
dream  of  a  kitchen,  with  its  range,  its  porcelain-lined  sink,  its  cop 
per  boiler,  and  its  overpowering  array  of  flashing  tinware.  Every 
thing  was  new ;  everything  was  complete. 

Maria  Macapa  and  a  waiter  from  one  of  the  restaurants  in  the 
street  were  to  prepare  the  wedding  supper  here.  Maria  had  already 


IO2  McTeague 

put  in  an  appearance.  The  fire  was  crackling  in  the  new  stove,  that 
smoked  badly;  a  smell  of  cooking  was  in  the  air.  She  drove  Mc 
Teague  and  Old  Grannis  from  the  room  with  great  gestures  of  her 
bare  arms. 

This  kitchen  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  rooms  they  had  been 
obliged  to  furnish  throughout.  Most  of  the  sitting-room  and  bed 
room  furniture  went  with  the  .suite ;  a  few  pieces  they  had  bought ; 
the  remainder  Trina  had  brought  over  from  the  B  Street  house. 

The  presents  had  been  set  out  on  the  extension  table  in  the 
sitting  room.  Besides  the  parlor  melodeon,  Trina's  parents  had 
given  her  an  ice-water  set,  and  a  carving  knife  and  fork  with  elk- 
horn  handles.  Selina  had  painted  a  view  of  the  Golden  Gate  upon 
a  polished  slice  of  redwood  that  answered  the  purposes  of  a  paper 
weight.  Marcus  Schouler — after  impressing  upon  Trina  that  his 
gift  was  to  her,  and  not  to  McTeague — had  sent  a  chatelaine  watch 
of  German  silver;  Uncle  Oelbermann's  present,  however,  had  been 
awaited  with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity.  What  would  he  send  ?  He 
was  very  rich ;  in  a  sense  Trina  was  his  protege.  A  couple  of  days 
before  that  upon  which  the  wedding  was  to  take  place,  two  boxes 
arrived  with  his  card.  Trina  and  McTeague,  assisted  by  Old  Gran 
nis,  had  opened  them.  The  first  was  a  box  of  all  sorts  of  toys. 

"But  what— what— I  don't  make  it  out,"  McTeague  had  ex 
claimed.  "Why  should  he  send  us  toys?  We  have  no  need  of 
toys."  Scarlet  to  her  hair,  Trina  dropped  into  a  chair  and  laughed 
till  she  cried  behind  her  handkerchief. 

"We've  no  use  of  :oys,"  muttered  McTeague,  looking  at  her  in 
perplexity.  Old  Grannis  smiled  discreetly,  raising  a  tremulous 
hand  to  his  chin. 

The  other  box  was  heavy,  bound  with  withes  at  the  edges,  the 
letters  and  stamps  burned  in. 

"I  think — I  really  think  it's  champagne,"  said  Old  Grannis  in  a 
whisper.  So  it  was.  A  full  case  of  Monopole.  What  a  wonder! 
None  of  them  had  seen  the  like  before.  Ah,  this  Uncle  Oelbermann ! 
That's  what  it  was  to  be  rich.  Not  one  of  the  other  presents  pro 
duced  so  deep  an  impression  as  this. 

After  Old  Grannis  and  the  dentist  had  gone  through  the  rooms, 
giving  a  last  look  around  to  see  that  everything  was  ready,  they  re 
turned  to  McTeague's  "Parlors."  .At  the  door  Old  Grannis  excused 
himself. 

At  four  o'clock  McTeague  began  to  dress,  shaving  himself  first 
before  the  hand-glass  that  was  hung  against  the  woodwork  of  the 


McTeague  103 

Say  window.  While  he  shaved  he  sang  with  strange  inappropri- 
ateness : 

"No  one  to  love,  none  to  caress, 
Left  all  alone  in  this  world's  wilderness." 

But  as  he  stood  before  the  mirror,  intent  upon  his  shaving,  there 
came  a  roll  of  wheels  over  the  cobbles  in  front  of  the  house.  He 
rushed  to  the  window.  Trina  had  arrived  with  her  father  and 
mother.  He  saw  her  get  out,  and  as  she  glanced  upward  at  his 
window,  their  eyes  met. 

Ah,  there  she  was.  There  she  was,  his  little  woman,  looking 
up  at  him,  her  adorable  little  chin  thrust  upward  with  that  familiar 
movement  of  innocence  and  confidence.  The  dentist  saw  again,  as 
if  for  the  first  time,  her  small,  pale  face  looking  out  from  beneath 
her  royal  tiara  of  black  hair;  he  saw  again  her  long,  narrow  blue 
eyes;  her  lips,  nose,  and  tiny  ears,  pale  and  bloodless,  and  sugges 
tive  of  anaemia,  as  if  all  the  vitality  that  should  have  lent  them 
color  had  been  sucked  up  into  the  strands  and  coils  of  that  won 
derful  hair. 

As  their  eyes  met  they  waved  their  hands  gayly  to  each  other; 
then  McTeague  heard  Trina  and  her  mother  come  up  the  stairs  and 
go  into  the  bedroom  of  the  photographer's  suite,  where  Trina  was 
to  dress. 

No,  no;  surely  there  could  be  no  longer  any  hesitation.  He 
knew  that  he  loved  her.  What  was  the  matter  with  him,  that  he 
should  have  doubted  it  for  an  instant?  The  great  difficulty  was 
that  she  was  too  good,  too  adorable,  too  sweet,  too  delicate  for  him, 
who  was  so  huge,  so  clumsy,  so  brutal. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Old  Grannis.  He  was 
dressed  in  his  one  black  suit  of  broadcloth,  much  wrinkled ;  his  hair 
was  carefully  brushed  over  his  bald  forehead. 

"Miss  Trina  has  come,"  he  announced,  "and  the  minister.  You 
have  an  hour  yet." 

The  dentist  finished  dressing.  He  wore  a  suit  bought  for  the 
occasion — a  ready-made  "Prince  Albert"  coat  too  short  in  the 
sleeves,  striped  "blue"  trousers,  and  new  patent  leather  shoes — 
veritable  instruments  of  torture.  Around  his  collar  was  a  won 
derful  necktie  that  Trina  had  given  him;  it  was  of  salmon-pink 
satin ;  in  its  centre  Selina  had  painted  a  knot  of  blue  forget-me-nots. 

At  length,  after  an  interminable  period  of  waiting,  Mr.  Sieppe 
appeared  at  the  door. 


104  McTeague 

"Are  you  realty?"  he  asked  in  a  sepulchral  whisper.  "Gome, 
den."  It  was  like  King  Charles  summoned __to  execution.  Mr. 
Sieppe  preceded  them  into  the  hall,  moving  at  a  funereal  pace.  He 
paused.  Suddenly,  in  the  direction  of  the  sitting-room,  came  the 
strains  of  the  parlor  melodeon.  Mr.  Sieppe  flung  his  arm  into 
the  air. 

"Vorwarts !"  he  cried. 

He  left  them  at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  he  himself  going 
into  the  bedroom  where  Trina  was  waiting,  entering  by  the  hall 
door.  He  was  in  a  tremendous  state  of  nervous  tension,  fearful  lest 
something  should  go  wrong.  He  had  employed  the  period  of  wait 
ing  in  going  through  his  part  for  the  fiftieth  time,  repeating  what 
he  had  to  say  in  a  low  voice.  He  had  even  made  chalk  marks  on  the 
matting  in  the  places  where  he  was  to  take  positions. 

The  dentist  and  Old  Grannis  entered  the  sitting-room ;  the  min 
ister  stood  behind  the  little  table  in  the  bay  window,  holding  a  book, 
one  finger  marking  the  place;  he  was  rigid,  erect,  impassive.  On 
/  either  side  of  him,  in  a  semicircle,  stood  the  invited  guests.  A  little 
pock-marked  gentleman  in  glasses,  no  doubt  the  famous  Uncle 
Oelbermann;  Miss  Baker,  in  her  black  grenadine,  false  curls,  and 
coral  brooch;  Marcus  Schouler,  his  arms  folded,  his  brows  bent, 
grand  and  gloomy;  Heise,  the  harness-maker,  in  yellow  gloves,  in 
tently  studying  the  pattern  of  the  matting;  and  Owgooste,  in  his 
Fauntleroy  "costume,"  stupefied  and  a  little  frightened,  rolling  his 
eyes  from  face  to  face.  Selina  sat  at  the  parlor  melodeon,  fingering 
the  keys,  her  glance  wandering  to  the  chenille  portieres.  She 
stopped  playing  as  McTeague  and  Old  Grannis  entered  and  took 
their  places.  A  profound  silence  ensued.  Uncle  Oelbermann's  shirt 
front  could  be  heard  creaking  as  he  breathed.  The  most  solemn 
expression  pervaded  every  face. 

All  at  once  the  portieres  were  shaken  violently.  It  wras  a  signal. 
Selina  pulled  open  the  stops  and  swung  into  the  wedding  march. 

Trina  entered.  She  was  dressed  in  white  silk,  a  crown  of  orange 
blossoms  was  around  her  swarthy  hair — dressed  high  for  the  first 
time — her  veil  reached  to  the  floor.  Her  face  was  pink,  but  other 
wise  she  was  calm.  She  looked  quietly  around  the  room  as  she 
crossed  it,  until  her  glance  rested  on  McTeague,  smiling  at  him  then 
very  prettily  and  with  perfect  self-possession. 

She  was  on  her  father's  arm.  The  twins,  dressed  exactly  alike, 
walked  in  front,  each  carrying  an  enormous  bouquet  of  cut  flowers 
in  a  "lace-paper"  holder.  Mrs.  Sieppe  followed  in  the  rear.  She 


McTeague  105 

was  crying;  her  handkerchief  was  rolled  into  a  wad.  From  time 
to  time  she  looked  at  the  train  of  Trina's  dress  through  her  tears. 
Mr.  Sieppe  marched  his  daughter  to  the  exact  middle  of  the  floor, 
wheeled  at  right  angles,  and  brought  her  up  to  the  minister.  He 
stepped  back  three  paces,  and  stood  planted  upon  one  of  his  chalk 
marks,  his  face  glistening  with  perspiration. 

Then  Trina  and  the  dentist  were  married.  The  guests  stood  in 
constrained  attitudes,  looking  furtively  out  of  the  corners  of  their 
eyes.  Mr.  Sieppe  never  moved  a  muscle ;  Mrs.  Sieppe  cried  into  her 
handkerchief  all  the  time.  At  the  melodeon  Selina  played  "Call  Me 
Thine  Own,"  very  softly,  the  tremulo  stop  pulled  out.  She  looked 
over  her  shoulder  from  time  to  time.  Between  the  pauses  of  the  music 
one  could  hear  the  low  tones  of  the  minister,  the  responses  of  the 
participants,  and  the  suppressed  sounds  of  Mrs.  Sieppe's  weeping. 
Outside  the  noises  of  the  street  rose  to  the  windows  in  muffled  un 
dertones,  a  cable  car  rumbled  past,  a  newsboy  went  by  chanting 
the  evening  papers;  from  somewhere  in  the  building  itself  came 
a  persistent  noise  of  sawing. 

Trina  and  McTeague  knelt.  The  dentist's  knees  thudded  on  the 
floor  and  he  presented  to  view  the  soles  of  his  shoes,  painfully  new 
and  unworn,  the  leather  still  yellow,  the  brass  nail  heads  still  glit 
tering.  Trina  sank  at  his  side  very  gracefully,  settling  her  dress  and 
train  with  a  little  gesture  of  her  free  hand.  The  company  bowed 
their  heads,  Mr.  Sieppe  shutting  his  eyes  tight.  But  Mrs.  Sieppe 
took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  stop  crying  and  make  furtive 
gestures  toward  Owgooste,  signing  him  to  pull  down  his  coat.  But 
Owgooste  gave  no  heed;  his  eyes  were  starting  from  their  sockets, 
his  chin  had  dropped  upon  his  lace  collar,  and  his  head  turned 
vaguely  from  side  to  side  with  a  continued  and  maniacal  motion. 

All  at  once  the  ceremony  was  over  before  any  one  expected  it. 
The  guests  kept  their  positions  for  a  moment,  eying  one  another, 
each  fearing  to  make  the  first  move,  not  quite  certain  as  to  whether 
or  not  everything  were  finished.  But  the  couple  faced  the  room, 
Trina  throwing  back  her  veil.  She — perhaps  McTeague  as  well — 
felt  that  there  was  a  certain  inadenuateness  about  the  ceremony. 
Was  that  all  there  was  to  it?  Did  just  those  few  muttered  phrases 
make  them  man  and  wife?  It  had  been  over  in  a  few  moments,  but 
it  had  bound  them  for  life.  Had  not  something  been  left  out?  Was 
not  the  whole  affair  cursory,  superficial?  _It  was  disappointing. 

But  Trina  had  no  time  to  dwell  urx)tnhTsT~lfrafcus  Schouler, 
in  the  manner  of  a  man  of  the  world,  who  knew  how  to  act  in  every 


io6  McTeague 

situation,  stepped  forward  and,  even  before  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Sieppe, 
took  Trina's  hand. 

"Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  Mrs.  McTeague,"  he  said, 
feeling  very  noble  and  heroic.  The  strain  of  the  previous  moments 
was  relaxed  immediately,  the  guests  crowded  around  the  pair,  shak 
ing  hands — a  babel  of  talk  arose. 

"Owgooste,  will  you  pull  down  your  goat,  den?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  now  you're  married  and  happy.  When  I  first 
saw  you  two  together,  I  said,  'What  a  pair !'  We're  to  be  neighbors 
now;  you  must  come  up  and  see  me  very  often  and  we'll  have  tea 
together." 

"Did  you  hear  that  sawing  going  on  all  the  time?  I  declare  it 
regularly  got  on  my  nerves." 

Trina  kissed  her  father  and  mother,  crying  a  little  herself  as 
she  saw  the  tears  in  Mrs.  Sieppe's  eyes. 

Marcus  came  forward  a  second  time,  and,  with  an  air  of  great 
gravity,  kissed  his  cousin  upon  the  forehead.  Heise  was  introduced 
to  Trina  and  Uncle  Oelbermann  to  the  dentist. 

For  upward  of  half  an  hour  the  guests  stood  about  in  groups, 
filling  the  little  sitting-room  with  a  great  clatter  of  talk.  Then  it 
was  time  to  make  ready  for  supper. 

This  was  a  tremendous  task,  in  which  nearly  all  the  guests  were 
obliged  to  assist.  The  sitting-room  was  transformed  into  a  dining- 
room.  The  presents  were  removed  from  the  extension  table  and 
the  table  drawn  out  to  its  full  length.  The  cloth  was  laid,  the 
chairs — rented  from  the  dancing  academy  hard  by — drawn  up,  the 
dishes  set  out,  and  the  two  bouquets  of  cut  flowers  taken  from  the 
twins  under  their  shrill  protests,  and  "arranged"  in  vases  at  either 
end  of  the  table. 

There  was  a  great  coming  and  going  between  the  kitchen  and  the 
sitting-room.  Trina,  who  was  allowed  to  do  nothing,  sat  in  the  bay 
window  and  fretted,  calling  to  her  mother  from  time  to  time: 

"The  napkins  are  in  the  right-hand  drawer  of  the  pantry." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  got  um.    Where  do  you  geep  der  zoup  blates?" 

"The  soup  plates  are  here  already." 

"Say,  Cousin  Trina,  is  there  a  corkscrew?  What  is  home  with 
out  a  corkscrew?" 

"In  the  kitchen-table  drawer,*  in  the  left-hand  corner." 

"Are  these  the  forks  you  want  to  use,  Mrs.  McTeague?" 

"No,  no,  there's  some  silver  forks.     Mamma  knows  where." 

They  were  all  very  gay,  laughing  over  their  mistakes,  getting 


McTeague  107 

in  one  another's  way,  rushing  into  the  sitting-room,  their  hands  full 
of  plates  or  knives  or  glasses,  and  darting  out  again  after  more. 
Marcus  and  Mr.  Sieppe  took  their  coats  off.  Old  Grannis  and  Miss 
Baker  passed  each  other  in  the  hall  in  a  constrained  silence,  her 
grenadine  brushing  against  the  elbow  of  his  wrinkled  frock  coat. 
Uncle  Oelbermann  superintended  Heise  opening  the  case  of  cham 
pagne  with  the  gravity  of  a  magistrate.  Owgooste  was  assigned 
the  task  of  filling  the  new  salt  and  pepper  canisters  of  red  and  blue 
glass. 

In  a  wonderfully  short  time  everything  was  ready.  Marcus 
Schouler  resumed  his  coat,  wiping  his  forehead,  and  remarking: 

"I  tell  you,  I've  been  doing  chores  for  my  board." 

"To  der  table !"  commanded  Mr.  Sieppe. 

The  company  sat  down  with  a  great  clatter,  Trina  at  the  foot, 
the  dentist  at  the  head ;  the  others  arranged  themselves  in  haphazard 
fashion.  But  it  happened  that  Marcus  Schouler  crowded  into  the 
seat  beside  Selina,  toward  which  Old  Grannis  was  directing  himself. 
There  was  but  one  other  chair  vacant,  and  that  at  the  side  of  Miss 
Baker.  Old  Grannis  hesitated,  putting  his  hand  to  his  chin.  How 
ever,  there  was  no  escape.  In  great  trepidation  he  sat  down  beside 
the  retired  dressmaker.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Old  Grannis  dared 
not  move,  but  sat  rigid,  his  eyes  riveted  on  his  empty  soup  plate. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  report  like  a  pistol.  The  men  started  in 
their  places.  Mrs.  Sieppe  uttered  a  muffled  shriek.  The  waiter 
from  the  cheap  restaurant,  hired  as  Maria's  assistant,  rose  from  a 
bending  posture,  a  champagne  bottle  frothing  in  his  hand;  he  was 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Don't  get  scairt,"  he  said  reassuringly,  "it  ain't  loaded." 

When  all  their  glasses  had  been  filled,  Marcus  proposed  the 
health  of  the  bride,  "standing  up."  The  guests  rose  and  drank. 
Hardly  one  of  them  had  ever  tasted  champagne  before.  The  mo 
ment's  silence  after  the  toast  was  broken  by  McTeague  exclaiming 
with  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction:  "That's  the  best  beer  /  ever 
drank." 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter.  Especially  was  Marcus  tickled 
over  the  dentist's  blunder;  he  went  off  in  a  very  spasm  of  mirth, 
banging  the  table  with  his  fist,  laughing  until  his  eyes  watered.  All 
through  the  meal  he  kept  breaking  out  into  cackling  imitations  of 
McTeague's  words :  "That's  the  best  beer  I  ever  drank.  Oh,  Lord, 
ain't  that  a  break !" 

What  a  wonderful  supper  that  was!     There  was  oyster  soup; 


io8  McTeague 

there  were  sea  bass  and  barracuda ;  there  was  a  gigantic  roast  goose 
stuffed  with  chestnuts;  there  were  egg-plant  and  sweet  potatoes- 
Miss  Baker  called  them  "yams."  There  was  calf's  head  in  oil,  over 
which  Mr.  Sieppe  went  into  ecstasies ;  there  was  lobster  salad ;  there 
were  rice  pudding,  and  strawberry  ice  cream,  and  wine  jelly,  and 
stewed  prunes,  and  cocoanuts,  and  mixed  nuts,  and  raisins,  and 
fruit,  and  tea,  and  coffee,  and  mineral  waters,  and  lemonade. 

For  two  hours  the  guests  ate ;  their  faces  red,  their  elbows  wide, 
the  perspiration  beading  their  foreheads.  All  around  the  table  one 
saw  the  same  incessant  movement  of  jaws  and  heard  the  same  un 
interrupted  sound  of  chewing.  Three  times  Heise  passed  his  plate 
for  more  roast  goose.  Mr.  Seippe  devoured  the  calf's  head  with 
long  breaths  of  contentment ;  McTeague  ate  for  the  sake  of  eating, 
without  choice;  everything  within  reach  of  his  hands  found  its 
way  into  his  enormous  mouth. 

There  was  but  little  conversation,  and  that  only  of  the  food ;  one 
exchanged  opinions  with  one's  neighbor  as  to  the  soup,  the  egg 
plant,  or  the  stewed  prunes.  Soon  the  room  became  very  warm,  a 
faint  moisture  appeared  upon  the  windows,  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  smell  of  cooked  food.  At  every  moment  Trina  or  Mrs.  Sieppe 
urged  some  one  of  the  company  to  have  his  or  her  plate  refilled. 
They  were  constantly  employed  in  dishing  potatoes  or  carving  the 
goose  or  ladling  gravy.  The  hired  waiter  circled  around  the  room, 
his  limp  napkin  over  his  arm,  his  hands  full  of  plates  and  dishes. 
He  was  a  great  joker;  he  had  names  of  his  own  for  different  articles 
of  food,  that  sent  gales  of  laughter  around  the  table.  When  he 
spoke  of  a  bunch  of  parsley  as  "scenery,"  Heise  all  but  strangled 
himself  over  a  mouthful  of  potato.  Out  in  the  kitchen  Maria 
Macapa  did  the  work  of  three,  her  face  scarlet,  her  sleeves  rolled  up ; 
every  now  and  then  she  uttered  shrill  but  unintelligible  outcries, 
supposedly  addressed  to  the  waiter. 

"Uncle  Oelbermann,"  said  Trina,  "let  me  give  you  another 
helping  of  prunes." 

The  Sieppes  paid  great  deference  to  Uncle  Oelbermann,  as  in 
deed  did  the  whole  company.  Even  Marcus  Schouler  lowered  his 
voice  when  he  addressed  him.  At  the  beginning  of  the  meal  he  had 
nudged  the  harness-maker  and  had  whispered  behind  his  hand,  nod 
ding  his  head  toward  the  wholesale  toy  dealer,  "Got  thirty  thousand 
dollars  in  the  bank;  has,  for  a  fact." 

"Don't  have  much  to  say,"  observed  Heise. 

"No,  no.    That's  his  way;  never  opens  his  face." 


McTeague  109 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  the  gas  and  two  lamps  were  lighted. 
The  company  were  still  eating.  The  men,  gorged  with  food,  had 
unbuttoned  their  vests.  McTeague's  cheeks  were  distended,  his 
eyes  wide,  his  huge,  salient  jaw  moved  with  a  machine-like  regular 
ity;  at  intervals  he  drew  a  series  of  short  breaths  through  his  nose. 
Mrs.  Sieppe  wiped  her  forehead  with  her  napkin. 

"Hey,  dere,  poy,  gif  me  some  more  oaf  dat — what  you  call — 
'bubble-water/ ' 

That  was  how  the  waiter  had  spoken  of  the  champagne — "bubble- 
water."  The  guests  had  shouted  applause,  "Outa  sight."  He  was 
a  heavy  josher,  was  that  waiter. 

Bottle  after  bottle  was  opened,  the  women  stopping  their  ears 
as  the  corks  were  drawn.  All  of  a  sudden  the  dentist  uttered  an 
exclamation,  clapping  his  hand  to  his  nose,  his  face  twisting  sharply. 

"Mac,  what  is  it?"  cried  Trina  in  alarm. 

"That  champagne  came  to  my  nose,"  he  cried,  his  eyes  water 
ing.  "It  stings  like  everything." 

"Great  beer,  ain't  ut?"  shouted  Marcus. 

"Now,  Mark,"  remonstrated  Trina  in  a  low  voice.  "Now,  Mark, 
you  just  shut  up;  that  isn't  funny  any  more.  I  don't  want  you 
should  make  fun  of  Mac.  He  called  it  beer  on  purpose.  I  guess 
he  knows." 

Throughout  the  meal  old  Miss  Baker  had  occupied  herself 
largely  with  Owgooste  and  the  twins,  who  had  been  given  a  table 
by  themselves — the  black  walnut  table  before  which  the  ceremony 
had  taken  place.  The  little  dressmaker  was  continually  turning 
about  in  her  place,  inquiring  of  the  children  if  they  wanted  for  any 
thing;  inquiries  they  rarely  answered  other  than  by  stare,  fixed, 
ox-like,  expressionless. 

Suddenly  the  little  dressmaker  turned  to  Old  Grannis  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"I'm  so  very  fond  of  little  children." 

"Yes,  yes,  they're  very  interesting.    I'm  very  fond  of  them,  too." 

The  next  instant  both  of  the  old  people  were  overwhelmed  with 
confusion.  What!  They  had  spoken  to  each  other  after  all  these 
years  of  silence;  they  had  for  the  first  time  addressed  remarks  to 
each  other. 

The  old  dressmaker  was  in  a  torment  of  embarrassment.  How 
was  it  she  had  come  to  speak  ?  She  had  neither  planned  nor  wished 
it.  Suddenly  the  words  had  escaped  her,  he  had  answered,  and  it 
was  all  over — over  before  they  knew  it. 


no  McTeague 

Old  Grannis's  fingers  trembled  on  the  table  ledge,  his  heart 
beat  heavily,  his  breath  fell  short.  He  had  actually  talked  to  the 
little  dressmaker.  That  possibility  to  which  he  had  looked  forward, 
it  seemed  to  him  for  years — that  companionship,  that  intimacy  with 
his  fellow-lodger,  that  delightful  acquaintance  which  was  only  to 
ripen  at  some  far  distant  time,  he  could  not  exactly  say  when — 
behold,  it  had  suddenly  come  to  a  head,  here  in  this  overcrowded, 
overheated  room,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  feeding,  surrounded  by 
odors  of  hot  dishes,  accompanied  by  the  sounds  of  incessant  mastica 
tion.  How  different  he  had  imagined  it  would  be!  They  were 
to  be  alone — he  and  Miss  Baker — in  the  evening  somewhere,  with 
drawn  from  the  world,  very  quiet,  very  calm  and  peaceful.  Their 
talk  was  to  be  of  their  lives,  their  lost  illusions,  not  of  other  people's 
children. 

The  two  old  people  did  not  speak  again.  They  sat  there  side  by 
side,  nearer  than  they  had  ever  been  before,  motionless,  abstracted  ; 
their  thoughts  far  away  from  that  scene  of  feasting.  They  were 
thinking  of  each  other  and  they  were  conscious  of  it.  Timid,  with 
the  timidity  of  their  second  childhood,  constrained  and  embarrassed 
by  each  other's  presence,  they  were,  nevertheless,  in  a  little  Elysium 
of  their  own  creating.  They  walked  hand  in  hand  in  a  delicious  gar 
den  where  it  was  always  autumn;  together  and  alone  they  entered 
upon  the  long  retarded  romance  of  their  commonplace  and  uneventful 
lives. 

At  last  that  great  supper  was  over,  everything  had  been  eaten ; 
the  enormous  roast  goose  had  dwindled  to  a  very  skeleton.  Mr. 
Sieppe  had  reduced  the  calf's  head  to  a  mere  skull ;  a  row  of  empty 
champagne  bottles — "dead  soldiers,'7  as  the  facetious  waiter  had 
called  them — lined  the  mantelpiece.  Nothing  of  the  stewed  prunes 
remained  but  the  juice,  which  was  given  to  Owgooste  and  the  twins. 
The  platters  were  as  clean  as  if  they  had  been  washed;  crumbs  of 
bread,  potato  parings,  nut-shells,  and  bits  of  cake  littered  the  table ; 
coffee  and  ice  cream  stains  and  spots  of  congealed  gravy  marked  the 
position  of  each  plate.  It  was  a  devastation,  a  pillage;  the  table 
presented  the  appearance  of  an  abandoned  battlefield. 

"Ouf,"  cried  Mrs.  Sieppe,  pushing  back,  "I  haf  eatun  und 
eatun,  ach,  Gott,  how  I  haf  eatun!" 

"Ah,  dot  kaf's  het,"  murmured  her  husband,  passing  his  tongue 
over  his  lips. 

The  facetious  waiter  had  disappeared.  He  and  Maria  Macapa 
foregathered  in  the  kitchen.  They  drew  up  to  the  washboard  of  the 


McTeague  1 1 1 

sink,  feasting  off  the  remnants  of  the  supper,  slices  of  goose,  the 
remains  of  the  lobster  salad,  and  half  a  bottle  of  champagne.  They 
were  obliged  to  drink  the  latter  from  teacups. 

"Here's  how,"  said  the  waiter  gallantly,  as  he  raised  his  teacup, 
bowing  to  Maria  across  the  sink.  "Hark,"  he  added,  "they're  sing 
ing  inside." 

The  company  had  left  the  table  and  had  assembled  about  the 
melodeon,  where  Selina  was  seated.  At  first  they  attempted  some 
of  the  popular  songs  of  the  day,  but  were  obliged  to  give  over,  as 
none  of  them  knew  any  of  the  words  beyond  the  first  line  of  the 
chorus.  Finally  they  pitched  upon  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee,"  as 
the  only  song  which  they  all  knew.  Selina  sang  the  "alto,"  very 
much  off  the  key;  Marcus  intoned  the  bass,  scowling  fiercely,  his 
chin  drawn  into  his  collar.  They  sang  in  very  slow  time.  The 
song  became  a  dirge,  a  lamentable,  prolonged  wail  of  distress : 

"Nee-rah,  my  Gahd,  to  Thee, 
Nee-rah  to  Thee-ah." 

At  the  end  of  the  song,  Uncle  Oelbermann  put  on  his  hat  with 
out  a  word  of  warning.  Instantly  there  was  a  hush.  The  guests 
rose. 

"Not  going  so  soon,  Uncle  Oelbermann?"  protested  Trina  po 
litely.  He  only  nodded.  Marcus  sprang  forward  to  help  him  with 
his  overcoat.  Mr.  Sieppe  came  up  and  the  two  men  shook  hands. 

Then  Uncle  Oelbermann  delivered  himself  of  an  oracular  phrase. 
No  doubt  he  had  been  meditating  it  during  the  supper.  Address 
ing  Mr.  Sieppe,  he  said: 

"You  have  not  lost  a  daughter,  but  have  gained  a  son." 

These  were  the  only  words  he  had  spoken  the  entire  evening. 
He  departed ;  the  company  was  profoundly  impressed. 

About  twenty  minutes  later,  when  Marcus  Schouler  was  enter 
taining  the  guests  by  eating  almonds,  shells  and  all,  Mr.  Sieppe 
started  to  his  feet,  watch  in  hand. 

"Haf-bast  elevun,"  he  shouted.  "Attention!  Der  dime  haf 
arrive,  shtop  eferyting.  We  depart." 

This  was  a  signal  for  tremendous  confusion.  Mr.  Sieppe  im 
mediately  threw  off  his  previous  air  of  relaxation,  the  calf's  head 
was  forgotten,  he  was  once  again  the  leader  of  vast  enterprises. 

"To  me,  to  me,"  he  cried.  "Mommer,  der  tervins,  Owgooste." 
He  marshaled "  his  tribe  together,  with  tremendous  commanding 


H2  McTeague 

gestures.  The  sleeping  twins  were  suddenly  shaken  into  a  dazed 
consciousness;  Owgooste,  whom  the  almond-eating  of  Marcus 
Schouler  had  petrified  with  admiration,  was  smacked  to  a  realization 
of  his  surroundings. 

Old  Grannis,  with  a  certain  delicacy  that  was  one  of  his  char 
acteristics,  felt  instinctively  that  the  guests — the  mere  outsiders- 
should  depart  before  the  family  began  its  leave-taking  of  Trina. 
He  withdrew  unobtrusively,  after  a  hasty  good-night  to  the  bride 
and  groom.  The  rest  followed  almost  immediately. 

"Well,  Mr.  Sieppe,"  exclaimed  Marcus,  "we  won't  see  each  other 
for  some  time."  Marcus  had  given  up  his  first  intention  of  joining 
in  the  Sieppe  migration.  He  spoke  in  a  large  way  of  certain  affairs 
that  would  keep  him  in  San  Francisco  till  the  fall.  Of  late  he  had 
entertained  ambitions  of  a  ranch  life,  he  would  breed  cattle,  he  had 
a  little  money  and  was  only  looking  for  some  one  "to  go  in  with." 
He  dreamed  of  a  cowboy's  life  and  saw  himself  in  an  entrancing 
vision  involving  silver  spurs  and  untamed  bronchos.  He  told  him 
self  that  Trina  had  cast  him  off,  that  his  best  friend  had  "played 
him  for  a  sucker,"  that  the  "proper  caper"  was  to  withdraw  from 
the  world  entirely. 

"If  you  hear  of  anybody  down  there,"  he  went  on,  speaking  to 
Mr.  Sieppe,  "that  wants  to  go  in  for  ranching,  why  just  let  me 
know." 

"Soh,  soh,"  answered  Mr.  Sieppe  abstractedly,  peering  about  for 
Owgooste's  cap. 

Marcus  bade  the  Sieppes  farewell.  He  and  Heise  went  out 
together.  One  heard  them,  as  they  descended  the  stairs,  discussing 
the  possibility  of  Frenna's  place  being  still  open. 

Then  Miss  Baker  departed  after  kissing  Trina  on  both  cheeks. 
Selina  went  with  her.  There  was  only  the  family  left. 

Trina  watched  them  go,  one  by  one,  with  an  increasing  feeling 
of  uneasiness  and  vague  apprehension.  Soon  they  would  all  be  gone. 

"Well,  Trina,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Sieppe,  "goot-py;  perhaps  you 
gome  visit  us  somedime." 

Mrs.  Sieppe  began  crying  again. 

"Ach,  Trina,,  ven  shall  I  efer  see  you  again?" 

Tears  came  to  Trina's  eyes  in  spite  of  herself.  She  put  her 
arms  around  her  mother. 

"Oh,  sometime,  sometime,"  she  cried.  The  twins  and  Owgooste 
clung  to  Trina's  skirts,  fretting  and  whimpering. 

McTeague  was  miserable.    He  stood  apart  from  the  group,  in  a 


McTeague  113 

corner.  None  of  them  seemed  to  think  of  him;  he  was  not  one  of 
them. 

"Write  to  me  very  often,  mamma,  and  tell  me  about  everything 
— about  August  and  the  twins." 

"It  is  dime,"  cried  Mr.  Sieppe  nervously.  "Goot-py,  Trina. 
Mommer,  Owgooste,  say  goot-py,  den  we  must  go.  Goot-py,  Trina." 
He  kissed  her.  Owgooste  and  the  twins  were  lifted  up.  "Gome, 
gome,"  insisted  Mr.  Sieppe,  moving  toward  the  door. 

"Goot-py,  Trina,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sieppe,  crying  harder  than 
ever.  "Doktor — where  is  der  doktor — Doktor,  pe  goot  to  her,  eh? 
pe  vairy  goot,  eh,  won't  you  ?  Zum  day,  Dokter,  you  vill  haf  a 
daughter,  den  you  know  berhaps  how  I  feel,  yes." 

They  were  standing  at  the  door  by  this  time.  Mr.  Sieppe,  half 
way  down  the  stairs,  kept  calling  "Gome,  gome,  we  miss  der  drain." 

Mrs.  Sieppe  released  Trina  and  started  down  the  hall,  the  twins 
and  Owgooste  following.  Trina  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  after 
them  through  her  tears.  They  were  going,  going.  When  would 
she  ever  see  them  again?  She  was  to  be  left  alone  with  this  man 
to  whom  she  had  just  been  married.  A  sudden  vague  terror  seized 
her ;  she  left  McTeague  and  ran  down  the  hall  and  caught  her  mother 
around  the  neck. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  she  whispered  in  her  mother's  ear, 
sobbing.  "Oh,  mamma,  I — I'm  'fraid." 

"Ach,  Trina,  you  preak  my  heart.  Don't  gry,  poor  leetle  girl." 
She  rocked  Trina  in  her  arms  as  though  she  were  a  child  again. 
"Poor  leetle  scairt  girl,  don'  gry — soh — soh — soh,  dere's  nuttun  to  pe 
'fraid  oaf.  Dere,  go  to  your  hoasban'.  Listen,  popper's  galling 
again ;  go  den ;  goot-py." 

She  loosened  Trina's  arms  and  started  down  the  stairs.  Trina 
leaned  over  the  banisters,  straining  her  eyes  after  her  mother. 

"What  is  ut,  Trina?" 

"Oh,  good-by,  good-by." 

"Gome,  gome,  we  miss  der  drain." 

"Mamma.,  oh,  mamma!" 

"What  is  ut,  Trina?" 

"Good-by." 

"Goot-py,  leetle  daughter." 

"Good-by,  good-by,  good-by." 

The  street  door  closed.    The  silence  was  profound. 

For  another  moment  Trina  stood  leaning  over  the  banisters, 
looking  down  into  the  empty  stairway.  It  was  dark.  There  was 


H4  McTeague 

nobody.  They — her  father,  her  mother,  the  children — had  left 
her,  left  her  alone.  She  faced  about  toward  the  rooms — faced  her 
husband,  faced  her  new  home,  the  new  life  that  was  to  begin  now. 

The  hall  was  empty  and  deserted.  The  great  flat  around  her 
seemed  new  and  huge  and  strange;  she  felt  horribly  alone.  Even 
Maria  and  the  hired  waiter  were  gone.  On  one  of  the  floors  above 
she  heard  a  baby  crying.  She  stood  there  an  instant  in  the  dark 
hall,  in  her  wedding  finery,  looking  about  her,  listening.  From  the 
open  door  of  the  sitting-room  streamed  a  golden  bar  of  light. 

She  went  down  the  hall,  by  the  open  door  of  the  sitting-room, 
going  on  toward  the  hall  door  of  the  bedroom. 

As  she  softly  passed  the  sitting-room  she  glanced  hastily  in. 
The  lamps  and  the  gas  were  burning  brightly,  the  chairs  were 
pushed  back  from  the  table  just  as  the  guests  had  left  them,  and 
the  table  itself,  abandoned,  deserted,  presented  to  view  the  vague 
confusion  of  its  dishes,  its  knives  and  forks,  its  empty  platters  and 
crumpled  napkins.  The  dentist  sat  there  leaning  on  his  elbows, 
his  back  toward  her;  against  the  white  blur  of  the  table  he  looked 
colossal.  Above  his  giant  shoulders  rose  his  thick,  red  neck  and 
mane  of  yellow  hair.  The  light  shone  pink  through  the  gristle  of 
his  enormous  ears. 

Trina  entered  the  bedroom,  closing  the  door  after  her.  At  the 
sound,  she  heard  McTeague  start  and  rise. 

"Is  that  you,  Trina?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  hold 
ing  her  breath,  trembling. 

The  dentist  crossed  the  outside  room,  parted  the  chenille  por 
tieres,  and  came  in.  He  came  toward  her  quickly,  making  as  if  to 
take  her  in  his  arms.  His  eyes  were  alight. 

"No,  no,"  cried  Trina,  shrinking  from  him.  Suddenly  seized 
with  the  fear  of  him — the  intuitive  feminine  fear  of  the  male — her 
whole  being  quailed  before  him.  She  was  terrified_  at_his^  huge, 
square-cut  head;  his  powerful,  salient  jaw;  his  huge,  red  hands,  his 
enormous,  resistless"  strength'. " 

".\To.  no — Fm  afraid,"  she  cried,  drawing  back  from  him  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Afraid?"  answered  the  dentist  in  perplexity.  "What  are  you 
afraid  of,  Trina  ?  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  What  are  you  afraid 
of?" 

What,  indeed,  was  Trina  afraid  of?  She  could  not  tell.  But 
what  did  she  know  of  McTeague,  after  all?  Who  was  this  man 


McTeague  115 

that  had  come  into  her  life,  who  had  taken  her  from  her  home 
and  from  her  parents,  and  with  whom  she  was  now  left  alone  here 
in  this  strange,  vast  flat? 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid.    I'm  afraid,"  she  cried. 

McTeague  came  nearer,  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  one  arm 
around  her. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  Trina  ?"  he  said  reassuringly.  "I  don't 
want  to  frighten  you." 

She  looked  at  him  wildly,  her  adorable  little  chin  quivering,  the 
tears  brimming  in  her  narrow  blue  eyes.  Then  her  glance  took  on  a 
certain  intenseness,  and  she  peered  curiously  into  his  face,  saying 
almost  in  a  whisper : 

"I'm  afraid  of  you." 

But  the  dentist  did  not  heed  her.  An  immense  joy  seized  upon 
him — the  joy  of  possession.  Trina  was  his  very  own  now.  She 
lay  there  in  tFe"hblT6w~of  his  arm,  helpless  and  very  pretty. 

Those  instincts  that  in  him  were  so  close  to  the  surface  suddenly 
leaped  to  life,  shouting  and  clamoring,  not  to  be  resisted.  He  loved 
her.  Ah,  did  he  not  love  her?  The  smell  of  her  hair,  of  her  neck, 
rose  to  him. 

Suddenly  he  caught  her  in  both  his  huge  arms,  crushing  down  her 
struggle  with  his  immense  strength,  kissing  her  full  upon  the  mouth. 
Then  her  great  love  for  McTeague  suddenly  flashed  up  in  Trina's 
breast;  she  gave  up  to  him  as  she  had  done  before,  yielding  all  at 
once  to  that  strange  desire  of  being  conquered  and  subdued.  She 
clung  to  him,  her  hands  clasped  behind  his  neck,  whispering  in  his 
ear: 

"Oh,  you  must  be  good  to  me — very,  very  good  to  me,  dear — 
for  you're  all  that  I  have  in  the  world  now." 


Ii6  McTeague 


THAT  summer  passed,  then  the  winter.  The  wet  season  began 
in  the  last  days  of  September  and  continued  all  through  October, 
November,  and  December.  At  long  intervals  would  come  a  week 
of  perfect  days,  the  sky  without  a  cloud,  the  air  motionless,  but 
touched  with  a  certain  nimbleness,  a  faint  effervescence  that  was 
exhilarating.  Then,  without  warning,  during  a  night  when  a  south 
wind  blew,  a  gray  scroll  of  cloud  would  unroll  and  hang  high  over 
the  city,  and  the  rain  would  come  pattering  down  again,  at  first  in 
scattered  showers,  then  in  an  uninterrupted  drizzle. 

All  day  long  Trina  sat  in  the  bay  window  of  the  sitting-room 
that  commanded  a  view  of  a  small  section  of  Polk  Street.  As  often 
as  she  raised  her  head  she  could  see  the  big  market,  a  confectionery 
store,  a  bell-hanger's  shop,  and  further  on,  above  the  roofs,  the  glass 
skylights  and  water  tanks  of  the  big  public  baths.  In  the  nearer 
foreground  ran  the  street  itself;  the  cable  cars  trundled  up  and 
down,  thumping  heavily  over  the  joints  of  the  rails;  market  carts 
by  the  score  came  and  went,  driven  at  a  great  rate  by  preoccupied 
young  men  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  with  pencils  behind  their  ears,  or 
by  reckless  boys  in  blood-stained  butchers'  aprons.  Upon  the  side 
walks  the  little  world  of  Polk  Street  swarmed  and  jostled  through 
its  daily  round  of  life.  On  fine  days  the  great  ladies  from  the 
avenue,  one  block  above,  invaded  the  street,  appearing  before  the 
butcher  stalls,  intent  upon  their  day's  marketing.  On  rainy  days 
their  servants— the.  Chinese  cooks  or  the  second  girls — took  their 
places.  These  servants  gave  themselves  great  airs,  carrying  their 
big  cotton  umbrellas  as  they  had  seen  their  mistresses  carry  their 
parasols,  and  haggling  in  supercilious  fashion  with  the  market  men, 
their  chins  in  the  air. 

The  rain  persisted.  Everything  in  the  range  of  Trina's  vision, 
from  the  tarpaulins  on  the  market-cart  horses  to  the  panes  of  glass 
in  the  roof  of  the  public  baths,  looked  glazed  and  varnished.  The 
asphalt  of  the  sidewalks  shone  -like  the  surface  of  a  patent  leather 
boot;  every  hollow  in  the  street  held  its  little  puddle,  that  winked 
like  an  eye  each  time  a  drop  of  rain  struck  into  it. 

Trina  still  continued  to  work  for  Uncle  Oelbermann.     In  the 


McTeague  117 

morning  she  busied  herself  about  the  kitchen,  the  bedroom,  and 
the  sitting-room ;  but  in  the  afternoon,  for  two  or  three  hours  after 
lunch,  she  was  occupied  with  the  Noah's  ark  animals.  She  took 
her  work  to  the  bay  window,  spreading  out  a  great  square  of  can 
vas  underneath  her  chair,  to  catch  the  chips  and  shavings,  which 
she  used  afterward  for  lighting  fires.  One  after  another  she  caught 
up  the  little  blocks  of  straight-grained  pine,  the  knife  flashed  be 
tween  her  fingers,  the  little  figure  grew  rapidly  under  her  touch, 
was  finished  and  ready  for  painting  in  a  wonderfully  short  time, 
and  was  tossed  into  the  basket  that  stood  at  her  elbow. 

But  very  often  during  that  rainy  winter  after  her  marriage  Trina 
would  pause  in  her  work,  her  hands  falling  idly  into  her  lap,  her 
eyes — her  narrow,  pale  blue  eyes — growing  wide  and  thoughtful  as 
she  gazed,  unseeing,  out  into  the  rain-washed  street. 

She  loved  McTeague  now  with  a  blind,  unreasoning  love  that 
admitted  of  no  doubt  or  hesitancy.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
it  was  only  after  her  marriage  with  the  dentist  that  she  had  really 
begun  to  love  him.  With  the  absolute  final  surrender  of  herself, 
the  irrevocable,  ultimate  submission^ ~.  ha<ljC9me  an  affectionate  like 
of  which  ~she  TiacTnever  dreamed  in  theToTd~T3  StreeF  days! But 
Trina  loved  her  husband,  not  because  she  fancied  she  saw  in  him 
any  of  those  noble  and  generous  qualities  that  inspire  affection. 
The  dentist  might  or  might  not  possess  them,  it  was  all  one  with 
Trina.  She  loved  him  because^  she  had  given  herself Jo  himjreely, 
unreservedly;  had  merged  her  individuality  into  his;  she  was  his, 
she  belonged  to  him  forever  and  forever.  Nothing  that  he  could  do 
(so  she  told  herself),  nothing  that  she  herself  could  do,  could  change 
her  in  this  respect.  McTeague  might  cease  to  love  her,  might  leave 
her,  might  even  die ;  it  would  be  all  the  same,  she  was  his^ 

But  it  had  not  been  so  at  first.  During  thoseTong,  rainy  days 
of  the  fall,  days  when  Trina  was  left  alone  for  hours,  at  that  time 
when  the  excitement  and  novelty  of  the  honeymoon  were  dying 
down,  when  the  new  household  was  settling  into  its  grooves,  she 
passed  through  many  an  hour  of  misgiving,  of  doubt,  and  even  of 
actual  regret. 

Never  would  she  forget  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  particular.  She 
had  been  married  for  three  weeks.  After  dinner  she  and  little  Miss 
Baker  had  gone  for  a  bit  of  a  walk  to  take  advantage  of  an  hour's 
sunshine  and  to  look  at  some  wonderful  geraniums  in  a  florist's  win 
dow  on  Sutter  Street.  They  had  been  caught  in  a  shower,  and  on  re 
turning  to  the  flat  the  little  dressmaker  had  insisted  on  fetching 


1 1 8  McTeague 

Trina  up  to  her  tiny  room  and  brewing  her  a  cup  of  strong  tea,  "to 
take  the  chill  off."  The  two  women  had  chatted  over  their  teacups 
the  better  part  of  the  afternoon,  then  Trina  had  returned  to  her 
rooms.  For  nearly  three  hours  McTeague  had  been  out  of  her 
thoughts,  and  as  she  came  through  their  little  suite,  singing  softly  to 
herself,  she  suddenly  came  upon  him  quite  unexpectedly.  Her  hus 
band  was  in  the  "Dental  Parlors/'  lying  back  in  his  operating  chair, 
fast  asleep.  The  little  stove  was  crammed  with  coke,  the  room  was 
overheated,  the  air  thick  and  foul  with  the  odors  of  ether,  of  coke 
gas,  of  stale  beer  and  cheap  tobacco.  The  dentist  sprawled  his 
gigantic  limbs  over  the  worn  velvet  of  the  operating  chair ;  his  coat 
and  vest  and  shoes  were  off,  and  his  huge  feet,  in  their  thick  gray 
socks,  dangled  over  the  edge  of  the  foot-rest;  his  pipe,  fallen  from 
his  half-opened  mouth,  had  spilled  the  ashes  into  his  lap ;  while  on  the 
floor,  at  his  side,  stood  the  half-empty  pitcher  of  steam  beer.  His 
head  had  rolled  limply  upon  one  shoulder,  his  face  was  red  with 
sleep,  and  from  his  open  mouth  came  a  terrific  sound  of  snoring. 

For  a  moment  Trina  stood  looking  at  him  as  he  lay  thus,  prone, 
inert,  half-dressed,  and  stupefied  with  the  heat  of  the  room,  the 
steam  beer,  and  the  fumes  of  the  cheap  tobacco.  Then  her  little 
chin  quivered  and  a  sob  rose  to  her  throat ;  she  fled  from  the  "Par 
lors,"  and  locking  herself  in  her  bedroom,  flung  herself  on  the  bed 
and  burst  into  an  agony  of  weeping.  Ah,  no,  ah,  no,  she  could  not 
love  him.  It  had  all  been  a  dreadful  mistake,  and  now  it  was  irrev 
ocable;  she  was  bound  to  this  man  for  life.  If  it  was  as  bad 
as  this  now,  only  three  weeks  after  her  marriage,  how  would 
it  be  in  the  years  to  come?  Year  after  year,  month  after 
month,  hour  after  hour,  she  was  to  see  this  same  face,  with 
its  salient  jaw,  was  to  feel  the  touch  of  those  enormous  red 
hands,  was  to  hear  the  heavy,  elephantine  tread  of  those  huge  feet — 
in  thick  gray  socks.  Year  after  year,  day  after  day,  there  would 
be  no  change,  and  it  would  last  all  her  life.  Either  it  would  be  one 
long  continued  revulsion,  or  else — worse  than  all — she  would  come 
to  be  content  with  him,  would  come  to  be  like  him,  would  sink  to  the 
level  of  steam  beer  and  cheap  tobacco,  and  all  her  pretty  ways,  her 
clean,  trim  little  habits,  would  be  forgotten,  since  they  would  be 
thrown  away  upon  her  stupid,  brutish  husband.  "Her  husband!" 
That  was  her  husband  in  there— she  could  yet  hear  his  snores — 
for  life,  for  life.  A  great  despair  seized  upon  her.  She  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow  and  thought  of  her  mother  with  an  infinite 
longing. 


McTeague  119 

Aroused  at  length  by  the  chittering  of  the  canary,  McTeague 
had  awakened  slowly.  After  a  while  he  had  taken  down  his  con 
certina  and  played  upon  it  the  six  very  mournful  airs  that  he  knew. 

Face  downward  upon  the  bed,  Trina  still  wept.  Throughout 
that  little  suite  could  be  heard  but  two  sounds,  the  lugubrious  strains 
of  the  concertina  and  the  noise  of  stifled  weeping. 

That  her  husband  should  be  ignorant  of  her  distress  seemed  to 
Trina  an  additional  grievance.  With  perverse  inconsistency  she 
began  to  wish  him  to  come  to  her,  to  comfort  her.  He  ought  to 
know  that  she  was  in  trouble,  that  she  was  lonely  and  unhappy. 

"Oh,  Mac,"  she  called  in  a  trembling  voice.  But  the  concer 
tina  still  continued  to  wail  and  lament.  Then  Trina  wished  she 
were  dead,  and  on  the  instant  jumped  up  and  ran  into  the  "Dental 
Parlors,"  and  threw  herself  into  her  husband's  arms,  crying:  "Oh, 
Mac,  dear,  love  me,  love  me  big!  I'm  so  unhappy." 

"What — what — what —  '  the  dentist  exclaimed,  starting  up  be 
wildered,  a  little  frightened. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  only  love  me,  love  me  always  and  always." 

But  this  first  crisis,  this  momentary  revolt,  as  much  a  matter  of 
high-strung  feminine  nerves^  as  of  anything  else,  passed,  and  in  the 
end  Trina's  affection  for  her  "old  bear"  grew  in  spite  of  herself. 
She  began  to  love  him  more  and  more,  not  for  what  he  was,  but  jor 
what  she  had  given  up  to  him.  Only  once  again  did  Trina  undergo 
a  reaction  against  her  husband,  and  then  it  was  but  the  matter  of 
an  instant,  brought  on,  curiously  enough,  by  the  sight  of  a  bit 
of  egg  on  McTeague's  heavy  mustache  one  morning  just  after 
breakfast. 

Then,  too,  the  pair  had  learned  to  make  concessions,  little  by 
little,  and  all  unconsciously  they  adapted  their  modes  of  life  to  suit 
each  other.  Instead  of  sinking  to  McTeague's  level,  as  she  had 
feared,  Trina  found  that  she  could  make  McTeague  rise  to  hers, 
and  in  this  saw  a  solution  of  many  a  difficult  and  gloomy  compli 
cation. 

For  one  thing,  the  dentist  began  to  dress  a  little  better,  Trina 
even  succeeded  in  inducing  him  to  wear  a  silk  hat  and  a  frock  coat 
of  a  Sunday.  Next  he  relinquished  his  Sunday  afternoon's  nap 
and  beer  in  favor  of  three  or  four  hours  spent  in  the  park  with  her — 
the  weather  permitting.  So  that  gradually  Trina's  misgivings 
ceased,  or  when  they  did  assail  her,  she  could  at  last  meet  them 
with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  saying  to  herself  meanwhile,  "Well, 
it's  done  now  and  it  can't  be  helped ;  one  must  make  the  best  of  it." 


I2O  McTeague 

During  the  first  months  of  their  married  life  these  nervous  re 
lapses  of  hers  had  alternated  with  brusque  outbursts  of  affection 
when  her  only  fear  was  that  her  husband's  love  did  not  equal  her 
own.  Without  an  instant's  warning,  she  would  clasp  him  about  the 
neck,  rubbing  her  cheek  against  his,  murmuring: 

"Dear  old  Mac,  I  love  you  so,  I  love  you  so.  Oh,  aren't  we  hap 
py  together,  Mac,  just  us  two  and  no  one  else?  You  love  me  as 
much  as  I  love  you,  don't  you,  Mac?  Oh,  if  you  shouldn't — if  you 
shouldn't." 

But  by  the  middle  of  the  winter  Trina's  emotions,  oscillating  at 
first  from  one  extreme  to  another,  commenced  to  settle  themselves 
to  an  equilibrium  of  calmness  and  placid  quietude.  Her  household 
duties  began  more  and  more  to  absorb  her  attention,  for  she  was 
an  admirable  housekeeper,  keeping  the  little  suite  in  marvelous  good 
order  and  regulating  the  schedule  of  expenditure  with  an  economy 
that  often  bordered  on  positive  niggardliness.  It  was  a  passion 
with  her  to  save  money.  In  the  bottom  of  her  trunk,  in  the  bed 
room,  she  hid  a  brass  match-safe  that  answered  the  purposes  of  a 
savings  bank.  Each  time  she  added  a  quarter  or  a  half-dollar  to 
the  little  store  she  laughed  and  sang  with  a  veritable  childish  /de 
light;  whereas,  if  the  butcher  or  milkman  compelled  her  to  pay 
an  overcharge  she  was  unhappy  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  She  did 
not  save  this  money  for  any  ulterior  purpose,  she  hoarded  instinct 
ively,  without  knowing  why,  responding  to  the  dentist's  remon 
strances  with: 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  I'm  a  little  miser,  I  know  it." 

Trina  had  always  been  an  economical  little  body,  but  it  was  only 
since  her  great  winning  in  the  lottery  that  she  had  become  especially 
penurious.  No  doubt,  in  her  fear  lest  their  great  good  luck  should 
demoralize  them  and  lead  to  habits  of  extravagance,  she  had  re 
coiled  too  far  in  the  other  direction.  Never,  never,  never  should  a 
penny  of  that  miraculous  fortune  be  spent;  rather  should  it  be 
added  to.  It  was  a  nest  egg,  a  monstrous,  roc-like  nest  egg,  not  so 
large,  however,  but  that  it  could  be  made  larger.  Already  by  the 
end  of  that  winter  Trina  had  begun  to  make  up  the  deficit  of  two 
hundred  dollars  that  she  had  been  forced  to  expend  on  the  prepara 
tions  for  her  marriage. 

McTeague,  on  his  part,  never  asked  himself  now-a-days  whether 
he  loved  Trina  the  wife  as  much  as  he  had  loved  Trina  the  young 
girl.  There  had  been  a  time  when  to  kiss  Trina,  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  had  thrilled  him  from  head  to  heel  with  a  happiness  that  was 


McTeague  121 

beyond  words;  even  the  smell  of  her  wonderful  odorous  hair  had 
sent  a  sensation  of  faintness  all  through  him.     That  time  was  long 
past  now.     Those  sudden  outbursts  of  affection  on  the  part  of  his  , 
little  woman,  outbursts  that  only  increased  in  vehemence  the  longer   I 
they  lived  together,  puzzled  rather  than  pleased  him.    He  had  come 
to   submit  to  them  gooci-naturedly,   answering  her   passionate   in 
quiries  with  a  "Sure,  sure,  Trina,  sure  I  love  you.     What — what's 
the  matter  with  you?" 

There  was  no  passion  in  the  dentist's  regard  for  his  wife.  He 
dearly  liked  to  have  her  near  him,  he  took  an  enormous  pleasure  in 
watching  her  as  she  moved  about  their  rooms,  very  much  at  home, 
gay  and  singing  from  morning  till  night;  and  it  was  his  great  de 
light  to  call  her  into  the  "Dental  Parlors"  when  a  patient  was  in  the 
chair  and,  while  he  held  the  plugger,  to  have  her  rap  in  the  gold 
fillings  with  the  little  box-wood  mallet  as  he  had  taught  her.  But 
that  tempest  of  passion,  that  overpowering  desire  that  had  suddenly 
taken  possession  of  him  that  day  when  he  had  given  her  ether,  again 
when  he  had  caught  her  in  his  arms  in  the  B  Street  station,  and 
again  and  again  during  the  early  days  of  their  married  life,  rarely 
stirred  him  now.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  never  assailed  with 
doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  marriage. 

McTeague  had  relapsed  to  his  wonted  stolidity.  He  never  ques 
tioned  himself,  never  looked  for  motives,  never  went  to  the  bottom 
of  things.  The  year  following  upon  the  summer  of  his  marriage  was 
a  time  of  great  contentment  for  him ;  after  the  novelty  of  the  honey 
moon  had  passed  he  slipped  easily  into  the  new  order  of  things  with 
out  a  question.  Thus  his  life  would  be  for  years  to  come.  Trina 
was  there ;  he  was  married  and  settled.  He  accepted  the  situation. 
The  little,  animal  comforts  which  for  him  constituted  the  enjoyment 
of  life  were  ministered  to  at  every  turn,  or  when  they  were  inter 
fered  with — as  in  the  case  of  his  Sunday  afternoon's  nap  and  beer 
— some  agreeable  substitute  was  found.  In  her  attempts  to  improve 
McTeague — to  raise  him  from  the  stupid  animal  life  to  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  in  his  bachelor^dayL — Trina  was  tactful  enough  to 
move  so  cautiously  and  with  such  slowness  that  the  dentist  was  un 
conscious  of  any  process  of  change.  In  the  matter  of  the  high  silk 
hat,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  initiative  had  come  from  himself. 

Gradually  the  dentist  improved  under  the  influence  of  his  little 
wife.  He  no  longer  went  abroad  with  frayed  cuffs  about  his  huge 
red  wrists — or  worse,  without  any  cuffs  at  all.  Trina  kept  his  linen 
clean  and  mended,  doing  most  of  his  washing  herself,  and  insisting 

F— III— NORRIS 


122  McTeague 

that  he  should  change  his  flannels — thick  red  flannels  they  were, 
with  enormous  bone  buttons — once  a  week,  his  linen  shirts  twice 
a  week,  and  his  collars  and  cuffs  every  second  day.  She  broke 
him  of  the  habit  of  eating  with  his  knife,  she  caused  him  to  substi 
tute  bottled  beer  in  the  place  of  steam  beer,  and  she  induced  him 
to  take  off  his  hat  to  Miss  Baker,  to  Heise's  wife,  and  to  the  other 
women  of  his  acquaintance.  McTeague  no  longer  spent  an  evening 
at  Frenna's.  Instead  of  this  he  brought  a  couple  of  bottles  of  beer 
up  to  the  rooms  and  shared  it  with  Trina.  In  his  "Parlors"  he  was 
no  longer  gruff  and  indifferent  to  his  female  patients;  he  arrived 
at  that  stage  where  he  could  work  and  talk  to  them  at  the  same  time ; 
he  even  accompanied  them  to  the  door,  and  held  it  open  for  them 
when  the  operation  was  finished,  bowing  them  out  with  great  nods 
of  his  huge  square-cut  head. 

Besides  all  this,  he  began  to  observe  the  broader,  larger  inter 
ests  of  life,  interests  that  affected  him  not  as  an  individual,  but  as  a 
member  of  a  class,  a  profession,  or  a  political  party.  He  read  the 
papers,  he  subscribed  to  a  dental  magazine;  on  Easter,  Christmas, 
and  New  Year's  he  went  to  church  with  Trina.  He  commenced  to 
have  opinions,  convictions — it  was  not  fair  to  deprive  tax-paying 
women  of  the  privilege  to  vote;  a  university  education  should  not 
be  a  prerequisite  for  admission  to  a  dental  college ;  the  Catholic 
'  priests  were  to  be  restrained  in  their  efforts  to  gain  control  of  the 
public  schools. 

But  most  wonderful  of  all,  McTeague  began  to  have  ambitions — • 
very  vague,  very  confused  ideas  of  something  better — ideas  for  the 
most  part  borrowed  from  Trina.  Some  day,  perhaps,  he  and  his 
wife  would  have  a  house  of  their  own.  What  a  dream !  A  little 
home  all  to  themselves,  with  six  rooms  and  a  bath,  with  a  grass  plat 
in  front  and  calla-lilies.  Then  there  would  be  children.  He  would 
have  a  son,  whose  name  would  be  Daniel,  who  would  go  to  High 
School,  and  perhaps  turn  out  to  be  a  prosperous  plumber  or  house 
painter.  Then  this  son  Daniel  would  marry  a  wife,  and  they  would 
all  live  together  in  that  six-room-and-bath  house.  Daniel  would 
have  little  children.  McTeague  would  grow  old  among  them  all. 
The  dentist  saw  himself  as  a  venerable  patriarch  surrounded  by 
children  and  grandchildren. 

So  the  winter  passed.  It  was  a  season  of  great  happiness  for  the 
McTeagues ;  the  new  life  jostled  itself  into  its  grooves.  A  routine 
began. 

On  week-days  they  rose  at  half-past  six,  being  awakened  by  the 


McTeague  1 23 

boy  who  brought  the  bottled  milk,  and  who  had  instructions  to 
pound  upon  the  bedroom  door  in  passing.  Trina  made  breakfast — 
coffee,  bacon  and  eggs,  and  a  roll  of  Vienna  bread  from  the  bakery. 
The  breakfast  was  eaten  in  the  kitchen,  on  the  round  deal  table 
covered  with  the  shiny  oilcloth  table-spread  tacked  on.  After  break 
fast  the  dentist  immediately  betook  himself  to  his  "Parlors"  to  meet 
his  early  morning  appointments — those  made  with  the  clerks  and 
shop  girls  who  stopped  in  for  half  an  hour  on  their  way  to  their 
work. 

Trina,  meanwhile,  busied  herself  about  the  suite,  clearing  away 
the  breakfast,  sponging  off  the  oilcloth  table-spread,  making  the 
bed,  pottering  about  with  a  broom  or  duster  or  cleaning  rag.  To 
ward  ten  o'clock  she  opened  the  windows  to  air  the  rooms,  then  put 
on  her  drab  jacket,  her  little  round  turban  with  its  red  wing,  took 
the  butcher's  and  grocer's  books  from  the  knife  basket  in  the  drawer 
of  the  kitchen  table,  and  descended  to  the  street,  where  she  spent  a 
delicious  hour — now  in  the  huge  market  across  the  way,  now  in  the 
grocer's  store  with  its  fragrant  aroma  of  coffee  and  spices,  and  now 
before  the  counters  of  the  haberdasher's,  intent  on  a  bit  of  shop 
ping,  turning  over  ends  of  veiling,  strips  of  elastic,  or  slivers  of 
whalebone.  On  the  street  she  rubbed  elbows  with  the  great  ladies 
of  the  avenue  in  their  beautiful  dresses,  or  at  intervals  she  met  an 
acquaintance  or  two — Miss  Baker,  or  Heise's  lame  wife,  or  Mrs. 
Ryer.  At  times  she  passed  the  flat  and  looked  up  at  the  windows  of 
her  home,  marked  by  the  huge  golden  molar  that  projected,  flash 
ing,  from  the  bay  window  of  the  "Parlors."  She  saw  the  open 
windows  of  the  sitting-room,  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains  stirring 
and  billowing  in  the  draught,  and  she  caught  sight  of  Maria  Ma- 
capa's  toweled  head  as  the  Mexican  maid-of-all-work  went  to  and 
fro  in  the  suite,  sweeping  or  carrying  away  the  ashes.  Occasionally 
in  the  windows  of  the  "Parlors"  she  beheld  McTeague's  rounded 
back  as  he  bent  to  his  work.  Sometimes,  even,  they  saw  each  other 
and  waved  their  hands  gayly  in  recognition. 

By  eleven  o'clock  Trina  returned  to  the  flat,  her  brown  net  reti 
cule — once  her  mother's — full  of  parcels.  At  once  she  set  about  get 
ting  lunch — sausages,  perhaps,  with  mashed  potatoes;  or  last  even 
ing's  joint  warmed  over  or  made  into  a  stew;  chocolate,  which 
Trina  adored,  and  a  side  dish  or  two — a  salted  herring  or  a  couple 
of  artichokes  or  a  salad.  At  half-past  twelve  the  dentist  came 
in  from  the  "Parlors,"  bringing  with  him  the  smell  of  creo 
sote  and  of  ether.  They  sat  down  to  lunch  in  the  sitting-room. 


124  McTeague 

They  told  each  other  of  their  doings  throughout  the  forenoon; 
Trina  showed  her  purchases,  McTeague  recounted  the  progress  of 
an  operation.  At  one  o'clock  they  separated,  the  dentist  returning 
to  the  "Parlors,"  Trina  settling  to  her  work  on  the  Noah's  ark 
animals.  At  about  three  o'clock  she  put  this  work  away,  and  lor 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  variously  occupied — sometimes  it  was 
the  mending,  sometimes  the  wash,  sometimes  new  curtains  to  be 
put  up,  or  a  bit  of  carpet  to  be  tacked  down,  or  a  letter  to  be  writ 
ten,  or  a  visit — generally  to  Miss  Baker — to  be  returned.  Toward 
five  o'clock  the  old  woman  whom  they  had  hired  for  that  purpose 
came  to  cook  supper,  for  even  Trina  was  not  equal  to  the  task  of 
preparing  three  meals  a  day. 

This  woman  was  French,  and  was  known  to  the  flat  as  Augus 
tine,  no  one  taking  enough  interest  in  her  to  inquire  for  her  last 
name ;  all  that  was  known  of  her  was  that  she  was  a  decayed  French 
laundress,  miserably  poor,  her  trade  long  since  ruined  by  Chinese 
competition.  Augustine  cooked  well,  but  she  was  otherwise  unde 
sirable,  and  Trina  lost  patience  with  her  at  every  moment.  The  old 
French  woman's  most  marked  characteristic  was  her  timidity. 
Trina  could  scarcely  address  her  a  simple  direction  without  Augus 
tine  quailing  and  shrinking;  a  reproof,  however  gentle,  threw  her 
into  an  agony  of  confusion;  while  Trina's  anger  promptly  reduced 
her  to  a  state  of  nervous  collapse,  wherein  she  lost  all  power  of 
speech,  while  her  head  began  to  bob  and  nod  with  an  uncontrollable 
twitching  of  the  muscles,  much  like  the  oscillations  of  the  head  of  a 
toy  donkey.  Her  timidity  was  exasperating,  her  very  presence  in 
the  room  unstrung  the  nerves,  while  her  morbid  eagerness  to  avoid 
offence  only  served  to  develop  in  her  a  clumsiness  that  was  at  times 
beyond  belief.  More  than  once  Trina  had  decided  that  she  could 
no  longer  put  up  with  Augustine,  but  each  time  she  had  retained 
her  as  she  reflected  upon  her  admirably  cooked  cabbage  soups  and 
tapioca  puddings,  and — which  in  Trina's  eyes  was  her  chiefest  rec 
ommendation—the  pittance  for  which  she  was  contented  to  work. 

Augustine  had  a  husband.  He  was  a  spirit-medium — a  "profes 
sor."  At  times  he  held  seances  in  the  larger  rooms  of  the  flat,  play 
ing  vigorously  upon  a  mouth-organ  and  invoking  a  familiar  whom 
he  called  "Edna,"  and  whom  he  asserted  was  an  Indian  maiden. 

The  evening  was  a  period  of  relaxation  for  Trina  and  McTeague. 

,  They  had  supper  at  six,  after  which  McTeague  smoked  his  pipe 

and  read  the  papers  for  half  an  hour,  while  Trina  and  Augustine 

cleared  away  the  table  and  washed  the  dishes.     Then,  as  often  as 


McTeague  125 

not,  they  went  out  together.  One  of  their  amusements  was  to  go 
"down  town"  after  dark  and  promenade  Market  and  Kearney 
Streets.  It  was  very  gay ;  a  great  many  others  were  promenading 
there  also.  All  of  the  stores  were  brilliantly  lighted  and  many  of 
them  still  open.  They  walked  about  aimlessly,  looking  into  the  shop 
windows.  Trina  would  take  McTeague's  arm,  and  he,  very  much 
embarrassed  at  that,  would  thrust  both  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
pretend  not  to  notice.  They  stopped  before  the  jewelers'  and  mil 
liners'  windows,  rinding  a  great  delight  in  picking  out  things  for 
each  other,  saying  how  they  would  choose  this  and  that  if  they 
were  rich.  Trina  did  most  of  the  talking,  McTeague  merely  ap 
proving  by  a  growl  or  a  movement  of  the  head  or  shoulders;  she 
was  interested  in  the  displays  of  some  of  the  cheaper  stores,  but  he 
found  an  irresistible  charm  in  an  enormous  golden  molar  with  four 
prongs  that  hung  at  a  corner  of  Kearney  Street.  Sometimes  they 
would  look  at  Mars  or  at  the  moon  through  the  street  telescopes  or 
sit  for  a  time  in  the  rotunda  of  a  vast  department  store  where  a 
band  played  every  evening. 

Occasionally  they  met  Heise,  the  harness-maker,  and  his  wife, 
with  whom  they  had  become  acquainted.  Then  the  evening  was 
concluded  by  a  four-cornered  party  in  the  Luxembourg,  a  quiet 
German  restaurant  under  a  theatre.  Trina  had  a  tamale  and  a  glass 
of  beer,  Mrs.  Heise  (who  was  a  decayed  writing  teacher)  ate 
salads,  with  glasses  of  grenadine  and  currant  syrups.  Heise  drank 
cocktails  and  whiskey  straight,  and  urged  the  dentist  to  join  him. 
But  McTeague  was  obstinate,  shaking  his  head.  "I  can't  drink  that 
stuff,"  he  said.  "It  don't  agree  with  me,  somehow;  I  go  kinda 
crazy  after  two  glasses."  So  he  gorged  himself  with  beer  and 
frankfurter  sausages  plastered  with  German  mustard. 

When  the  annual  Mechanics'  Fair  opened,  McTeague  and  Trina 
often   spent  their  evenings  there,   studying  the  exhibits   carefully  . 
(since  in  Trina's  estimation  education  meant  knowing  things  and  \ 
being  able  to  talk  about  them).     Wearying  of  this  they  would  go  * 
up  into  the  gallery,  and,  leaning  over,  look  down  into  the  huge  am 
phitheatre  full  of  light  and  color  and  movement. 

There  rose  to  them  the  vast  shuffling  noise  of  thousands  of  feet 
and  a  subdued  roar  of  conversation  like  the  sound  of  a  great  mill. 
Mingled  with  this  was  the  purring  of  distant  machinery,  the  splash 
ing  of  a  temporary  fountain,  and  the  rhythmic  jangling  of  a  brass 
band,  while  in  the  piano  exhibit  a  hired  performer  was  playing  upon 
a  concert  grand  with  a  great  flourish.  Nearer  at  hand  they  could 


126  McTeague 

catch  ends  of  conversation  and  notes  of  laughter,  the  noise  of  mov 
ing  dresses,  and  the  rustle  of  stiffly  starched  skirts.  Here  and  there 
school-children  elbowed  their  way  through  the  crowd,  crying  shrilly, 
their  hands  full  of  advertisement  pamphlets,  fans,  picture  cards, 
and  toy  whips,  while  the  air  itself  was  full  of  the  smell  of  fresh 
popcorn. 

They  even  spent  some  time  in  the  art  gallery.  Trina's  cousin 
Selina,  who  gave  lessons  in  hand  painting  at  two  bits  an  hour,  gen 
erally  had  an  exhibit  on  the  walls,  which  they  were  interested  to 
find.  It  usually  was  a  bunch  of  yellow  poppies  painted  on  black 
velvet  and  framed  in  gilt.  They  stood  before  it  some  little  time, 
hazarding  their  opinions,  and  then  moved  on  slowly  from  one  pic 
ture  to  another.  Trina  had  McTeague  buy  a  catalogue  and  made  a 
duty  of  finding  the  title  of  very  picture.  This,  too,  she  told  Mc 
Teague,  was  a  kind  of  education  one  ought  to  cultivate^  Trina 
professed  to  be  fond  of  arT,"  having  perhaps  acquired  a  taste  for 
painting  and  sculpture  from  her  experience  with  the  Noah's  ark 
animals. 

"Of  course/'  she  told  the  dentist,  "I'm  no  critic,  I  only  know 
what  I  like."  She  knew  that  she  liked  the  "Ideal  Heads,"  lovely 
girls  with  flowing  straw-colored  hair  and  immense,  upturned  eyes. 
These  always  had  for  title  "Reverie,"  or  "An  Idyl,"  or  "Dreams 
of  Love." 

"I  think  those  are  lovely,  don't  you,  Mac  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  McTeague,  nodding  his  head,  bewildered, 
trying  to  understand.  "Yes,  yes,  lovely,  that's  the  word.  Are  you 
dead  sure  now,  Trina,  that  all  that's  hand-painted  just  like  the 
poppies  ?" 

Thus  the  winter  passed,  a  year  went  .by,-  then_  two.  The  little 
life  of  Polk  Street,  the  life  of  small  traders,  drug  clerks,  grocers, 
stationers,  plumbers,  dentists,  doctors,  spirit-mediums,  and  the  like, 
ran  on  monotonously  in  its  accustomed  grooves.  The  first  three 
years  of  their  married  life  wrought  little  change  in  the  fortunes  of 
the  McTeagues.  In  the  third  summer  the  branch  post-office  was 
moved  from  the  ground  floor  of  the  flat  to  a  corner  further  up  the 
street  in  order  to  be  near  the  cable  line  that  ran  mail  cars.  Its 
place  was  taken  by  a  German  saloon,  called  a  "Wein  Stube,"  in  the 
face  of  the  protests  of  every  female  lodger.  A  few  months  later 
quite  a  little  flurry  of  excitement  ran  through  the  street  on  the  occa 
sion  of  "The  Polk  Street  Open  Air  Festival,"  organized  to  cele 
brate  the  introduction  there  of  electric  lights.  The  festival  lasted 


McTeague  127 

three  days  and  was  quite  an  affair.  The  street  was  garlanded  with 
yellow  and  white  bunting;  there  were  processions  and  "floats"  and 
brass  bands.  .Marcus  Schouler  was  in  his  element  during  the 
whole  time  of  ttuf  celebration.  He  was  one  of  the  marshals  of  the 
parade,  and  was  to  be  seen  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  wearing  a 
borrowed  high  hat  and  cotton  gloves,  and  galloping  a  broken-down 
cab-horse  over  the  cobbles.  He  carried  a  baton  covered  with  yel 
low  and  white  calico,  with  which  he  made  furious  passes  and  ges 
tures.  His  voice  was  soon  reduced  to  a  whisper  by  continued 
shouting,  and  he  raged  and  fretted  over  trifles  till  he  wore  him 
self  thin.  McTeague  was  disgusted  with  him.  As  often  as  Mar 
cus  passed  the  window  of  the  flat  the  dentist  would  mutter: 

"Ah,  you  think  you're  smart,  don't  you  ?" 

The  result  of  the  festival  was  the  organizing  of  a  body  known 
as  the  "Polk  Street  Improvement  Club,"  of  which  Marcus  was; 
elected  secretary.  McTeague  and  Trina  often  heard  of  him  in  this 
capacity  through  Heise,  the  harness-maker.  Marcus  had  evidently 
come  to  have  political  aspirations.  It  appeared  that  he  was  gaining 
a  reputation  as  a  maker  of  speeches,  delivered  with  fiery  emphasis, 
and  occasionally  reprinted  in  the  "Progress,"  the  organ  of  the  club 
— "outraged  constituencies,"  "opinions  warped  by  personal  bias," 
"eyes  blinded  by  party  prejudice,"  etc. 

Of  her  family,  Trina  heard  every  fortnight  in  letters  from  her , 
mother.  The  upholstery  business  which  Mr.  Sieppe  had  bought  was 
doing  poorly,  and  Mrs.  Sieppe  bewailed  the  day  she  had  ever  left 
B  Street.  Mr.  Sieppe  was  losing  money  every  month.  Owgooste, 
who  was  to  have  gone  to  school,  had  been  forced  to  go  to  work  in 
"the  store,"  picking  waste.  Mrs.  Sieppe  was  obliged  to  take  a 
lodger  or  two.  Affairs  were  in  a  very  bad  way.  Occasionally  she 
spoke  of  Marcus.  Mr.  Sieppe  had  not  forgotten  him  despite  his 
own  troubles,  but  still  had  an  eye  out  for  some  one  whom  Marcus 
could  "go  in  with"  on  a  ranch. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  this  period  of  three  years  that  Trina 
and  McTeague  had  their  first  serious  quarrel.  Trina  had  talked  so 
much  about  having  a  little  house  of  their  own  at  some  future  day  ] 
that  McTeague  had  at  length  come  to  regard  the  affair  as  the  end 
and  object  of  all  their  labors.  For  a  long  time  they  had  had  their  eyes 
upon  one  house  in  particular.  It  was  situated  on  a  cross  street  close 
by,  between  Polk  Street  and  the  great  avenue  one  block  above,  and 
hardly  a  Sunday  afternoon  passed  that  Trina  and  McTeague  did 
not  go  and  look  at  it.  They  stood  for  fully  half  an  hour  upon  the 


is,  f 
jb  / 

* 


128  McTeague 

other  side  of  the  street,  examining  every  detail  of  its  exterior,  haz 
arding  guesses  as  to  the  arrangement  of  the  rooms,  commenting 
upon  its  immediate  neighborhood — which  was  rather  sordid.  The 
house  was  a  wooden  two-story  arrangement,  built  by  a  misguided 
contractor  in  a  sort  of  hideous  Queen  Anne  style,  all  scrolls  and 
meaningless  mill-work,  with  a  cheagjmitation  of  stained  glass  in  the 
light  over  the  door.  There  was  a  microscopic  front  yard  full  of 
dusty  calla-lilies.  The  front  door  boasted  lirTelectric  bell.  But  for 
the  McTeagues  it  was  an  ideal  home.  Their  idea  was  to  live  m 
this  little  house,  the  dentist  retaining  merely  his  office  in  the  flat. 
The  two  places  were  but  around  the  corner  from  each  other,  so 
that  McTeague  could  lunch  with  his  wife,  as  usual,  and  could  even 
keep  his  early  morning  appointments  and  return  to  breakfast  if 
he  so  desired. 

However,  the  house  was  occupied.  A  Hungarian  family  lived 
in  it.  The  father  kept  a  stationery  and  notion  "bazaar"  next  to 
Heise's  harness-shop  on  Polk  Street,  while  the  oldest  son  played  a 
third  violin  in  the  orchestra  of  a  theatre.  The  family  rented  the 
house  unfurnished  for  thirty-five  dc'lars,  paying  extra  for  the  water. 

But  one  Sunday  asTrina  and  McTeague  on  their  way  home  from 
their  usual  walk  turned  into  the  cross  street  on  which  the  little 
house  was  situated,  they  became  promptly  aware  of  an  unwonted 
bustle  going  on  upon  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  it.  A  dray  was  backed 
against  the  curb,  an  express  wagon  drove  away  loaded  with  furni 
ture;  bedsteads,  looking-glasses,  and  washbowls  littered  the  side 
walks.  The  Hungarian  family  were  moving  out. 

"Oh,  Mac,  look !"  gasped  Trina. 

"Sure,  sure,"  muttered  the  dentist. 

After  that  they  spoke  but  little.  For  upward  of  an  hour  the 
two  stood  upon  the  sidewalk  opposite,  watching  intently  all  that 
iwent  forward,  absorbed,  excited. 

On  the  evening  of  the  next  day  they  returned  and  visited  the 
house,  finding  a  great  delight  in  going  from  room  to  room  and  im 
agining  themselves  installed  therein.  Here  would  be  the  bedroom, 
here  the  dining-room,  here  a  charming  little  parlor.  As  they  came 
out  upon  the  front  steps  once  more  they  met  the  owner,  an  enor 
mous,  red-faced  fellow,  so  fat  that  his  walking  seemed  merely  a 
'certain  movement  of  his  feet  by  which  he  pushed  his  stomach  along 
in  front  of  him.  Trina  talked  with  him  a  few  moments,  but  arrived 
at  no  understanding,  and  the  two  went  away  after  giving  him  their 
address.  At  supper  that  night  McTeague  said: 


McTeague  129 

"Huh— what  do  you  think,  Trina?" 

Trina  put  her  chin  in  the  air,  tilting  back  her  heavy  tiara  of 
,  swarthy  hair. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  yet.  Thirty-five  dollars  and  the  water  extra. 
I  don't  think  we  can  afford  it,  Mac." 

"Ah,  pshaw!"  growled  the  dentist,  "sure  we  can." 

"It  isn't  only  that,"  said  Trina,  "but  it'll  cost  so  much  to  make 
the  change." 

"Ah,  you  talk's  though  we  were  paupers.  Ain't  we  got  five 
thousand  dollars?" 

Trina  flushed  on  the  instant,  even  to  the  lobes  of  her  tiny  pale 
ears,  and  put  her  lips  together. 

"Now,  Mac,  you  know  I  don't  want  you  should  talk  like  that. 
That  money's  never,  never  to  be  touched." 

"And  you've  been  savun  up  a  good  deal,  besides,"  went  on  Mc 
Teague,  exasperated  at  Trina's  persistent  economies.  "How  much 
money  have  you  got  in  that  little  brass  match-safe  in  the  bottom 
of  your  trunk?  Pretty  near  a  hundred  dollars,  I  guess — ah,  sure." 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  nodded  his  great  head  in  a  knowing  way. 

Trina  had  more  than  that  in  the  brass  match-safe  in  question, 
but  her  instinct  of  hoarding  had  led  her  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  her 
husband.  Nqw_she  lied  to  hirnjwith  prompt  fluency. 

"A  hundred  dollars !  WhaT  are  you  talking  "of;  Mac?  I've  not 
got  fifty.  I've  not  got  thirty" 

"Oh,  let's  take  that  little  house,"  broke  in  McTeague.  "We  got 
the  chance  now,  and  it  may  never  come  again.  Come  on,  Trina, 
shall  we  ?  Say,  come  on,  shall  we,  huh  ?" 

"We'd  have  to  be  awful  saving  if  we  did,  Mac." 

"Well,  sure,  /  say  let's  take  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Trina,  hesitating.  "Wouldn't  it  be  lovely 
to  have  a  house  all  to  ourselves?  But  let's  not  decide  until  to 
morrow." 

The  next  day  the  owner  of  the  house  called.  Trina  was  out  at 
her  morning's  marketing  and  the  dentist,  who  had  no  one  in  the  x 
chair  at  the  time,  received  him  in  the  "Parlors."  Before  he  was 
well  aware  of  it,  McTeague  had  concluded  the  bargain.  The  owner 
bewildered  him  with  a  world  of  phrases,  made  him  believe  that  it 
would  be  a  great  saving  to  move  into  the  little  house,  and  finally 
offered  it  to  him  "water  free." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  McTeague,  "I'll  take  it/' 

The  other  immediately  produced  a  paper. 


130  McTeague 

"Well,  then,  suppose  you  sign  for  the  first  month's  rent,  and 
we'll  call  it  a  bargain.  That's  business,  you  know,"  and  Mc 
Teague,  hesitating,  signed. 

"I'd  like  to  have  talked  more  with  my  wife  about  it  first,"  he 
said,  dubiously. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  answered  the  owner,  easily.  "I  guess 
•  if  the  head  of  the  family  wants  a  thing,  that's  enough." 

McTeague  could  not  wait  until  lunch  time  to  tell  the  news  to 
Trina.  As  soon  as  he  heard  her  come  in,  he  laid  down  the  plaster- 
of-paris  mold  he  was  making  and  went  out  into  the  kitchen  and 
found  her  chopping  up  onions. 

"Well,  Trina,"  he  said,  "we  got  that  house.    I've  taken  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  answered,  quickly.  The  dentist  told 
her. 

"And  you  signed  a  paper  for  the  first  month's  rent?" 

"Sure,  sure.     That's  business,  you  know." 

"Well,  why  did  you  do  it?"  cried  Trina.  "You  might  have 
asked  me  something  about  it.  Now,  what  have  you  done?  I  was 
talking  with  Mrs.  Ryer  about  that  house  while  I  was  out  this  morn 
ing,  and  she  said  the  Hungarians  moved  out  because  it  was  abso 
lutely  unhealthy ;  there's  water  been  standing  in  the  basement  for 
months.  And  she  told  me,  too,"  Trina  went  on  indignantly,  "that 
she  knew  the  owner,  and  she  was  sure  we  could  get  the  house  for 
thirty  if  we'd  bargain  for  it.  Now  what  have  you  gone  and  done? 
I  hadn't  made  up  my  mind  about  taking  the  house  at  all.  And 
now  I  won't  take  it,  with  the  water  in  the  basement  and  all." 

"Well — well,"  stammered  McTeague,  helplessly,  "we  needn't  go 
in  if  it's  unhealthy." 

"But  you've  signed  a  paper,"  cried  Trina,  exasperated.  "You've 
got  to  pay  that  first  month's  rent,  anyhow — to  forfeit  it.  Oh,  you 
are  so  stupid!  There's  thirty-five  dollars  just  thrown  away.  I 
shan't  go  into  that  house ;  we  won't  move  a  foot  out  of  here.  I've 
changed  my  mind  about  it,  and  there's  water  in  the  basement 
besides." 

"Well,  I  guess  we  can  stand  thirty-five  dollars,"  mumbled  the 
dentist,  "if  we've  got  to." 

"Thirty-five  dollars  just  thrown  out  of  the  window,"  cried 
Trina,  her  teeth  clicking,  every  instinct  of  her  parsimony_arpused. 
"Oh,  you  are  the  thick-wittedest  man  that  I  ever  knew.  Do  you 
think  we're  millionaires?  Oh,  to  think  of  losing  thirty-five  dol 
lars  like  that."  Tears  were  in  her  eyes,  tears  of  grief  as  well  as 


McTeague  131 

of  anger.  Never  had  McTeague  seen  his  little  woman  so  aroused. 
Suddenly  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  slammed  the  chopping-bowl 
down  upon  the  table.  "Well,  /  won't  pay  a  nickel  of  it,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Huh?  What,  what?"  stammered  the  dentist,  taken  all  aback 
by  her  outburst. 

"I  say  that  you  will  find  that  money,  that  thirty-five  dollars, 
yourself." 

-Why— why— ' 

"It's  your  stupidity  got  us  into  this  fix,  and  you'll  be  the  one 
that'll  suffer  by  it." 

"I  can't  do  it,  I  won't  do  it.  We'll — we'll  share  and  share  alike. 
Why,  you  said — you  told  me  you'd  take  the  house  if  the  water  was 
free." 

"I  never  did.  I  never  did.  How  can  you  stand  there  and  say 
such  a  thing?" 

"You  did  tell  me  that,"  vociferated  McTeague,  beginning  to  get 
angry  in  his  turn. 

"Mac,  I  didn't,  and  you  know  it.  And  what's  more,  I  won't  pay 
a  nickel.  Mr.  Heise  pays  his  bill  next  week,  it's  forty-three  dollars, 
and  you  can  just  pay  the  thirty-five  out  of  that." 

"Why,  you  got  a  whole  hundred  dollars  saved  up  in  your 
match-safe,"  shouted  the  dentist,  throwing  out  an  arm  with 
an  awkward  gesture.  "You  pay  half  and  I'll  pay  half,  that's 
only  fair." 

"No,  no,  no"  exclaimed  Trina.  "It's  not  a  hundred  dollars. 
You  won't  touch  it;  you  won't  touch  my  money,  I  tell  you." 

"Ah,  how  does  it  happen  to  be  yours,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"It's  mine !  It's  mine  !  It's  mine  !"  cried  Trina,  her  face  scarlet, 
her  teeth  clicking  like  the  snap  of  a  closing  purse. 

"It  ain't  any  more  yours  than  it  is  mine." 

"Every  penny  of  it  is  mine." 

"Ah,  what  a  fine  fix  you'd  get  me  into,"  growled  the  dentist. 
"I've  signed  the  paper  with  the  owner;  that's  business,  you  know, 
that's  business,  you  know;  and  now  you  go  back  on  me.  Suppose 
we'd  taken  the  house,  we'd  'a'  shared  the  rent,  wouldn't  we,  just 
as  we  do  here?" 

Trina  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  great  affectation  of  in 
difference  and  began  chopping  the  onions  again. 

"You  settle  it  with  the  owner,"  she  said.  "It's  your  affair; 
you've  got  the  money."  She  pretended  to  assume  a  certain  calm- 


1^2  McTeague 

ness  as  though  the  matter  were  something  that  no  longer  affected 
her.    Her  manner  exasperated  McTeague  all  the  more. 

"No,  I  won't ;  no,  I  won't ;  I  won't  either,"  he  shouted.  "I'll  pay 
my  half  and  he  can  come  to  you  for  the  other  half."  Trina  put  a 
hand  over  her  ear  to  shut  out  his  clamor. 

"Ah,  don't  try  and  be  smart,"  cried  McTeague.  "Come,  now, 
yes  or  no,  will  you  pay  your  half  ?" 

"You  heard  what  I  said." 

"Will  you  pay  it?" 
/     "No." 

"Miser !"  shouted  McTeague.     "Miser !  you're  worse  than  old 
Zerkow.    All  right,  all  right,  keep  your  money.     I'll  pay  the  whole 
'thirty-five.    I'd  rather  lose  it  than  be  such  a  miser  as  you." 

"Haven't  you  got  anything  to  do,"  returned  Trina,  "instead  of 
staying  here  and  abusing  me?" 

"Well,  then,  for  the  last  time,  will  you  help  me  out?"  Trina  cut 
the  heads  of  a  fresh  bunch  of  onions  and  gave  no  answer. 

"Huh?  will  you?" 

"I'd  like  to  have  my  kitchen  to  myself,  please,"  she  said  in  a 
mincing  way,  irritating  to  a  last  degree.  The  dentist  stamped  out 
of  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

For  nearly  a  week  the  breach  between  them  remained  unhealed. 
Trina  only  spoke  to  the  dentist  in  monosyllables,  while  he,  exas 
perated  at  her  calmness  and  frigid  reserve,  sulked  in  his  "Dental 
Parlors,"  muttering  terrible  things  beneath  his  mustache,  or  finding 
solace  in  his  concertina,  playing  his  six  lugubrious  airs  over  and 
I  over  again,  or  swearing  frightful  oaths  at  his  canary.  When  Heise 
paid  his  bill,  McTeague,  in  a  fury,  sent  the  amount  to  the  owner 
of  the  little  house. 

There  was  no  formal  reconciliation  between  the  dentist  and  his 
little  woman.  Their  relations  readjusted  themselves  inevitably.  By 
the  end  of  the  week  they  were  as  amicable  as  ever,  but  it  was  long 
before  they  spoke  of  the  little  house  again.  Nor  did  they  ever  revisit 
it  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  A  month  or  so  later  the  Ryers  told  them 
that  the  owner  himself  had  moved  in.  The  McTeagues  never  occu 
pied  that  little  house. 

But  Trina  suffered  a  reaction  after  the  quarrel.  She  began  to 
be  sorry  she  had  refused  to  help  her  husband,  sorry  she  had  brought 
matters  to  such  an  issue.  One  afternoon  as  she  was  at  work  on  the 
Noah's  ark  animals,  she  surprised  herself  crying  over  the  affair. 
She  loved  her  "old  bear"  too  much  to  do  him  an  injustice,  and  per- 


McTeague  133 

haps,  after  all,  she  had  been  in  the  wrong.  Then  it  occurred  to  her 
how  pretty  it  would  be  to  come  up  behind  him  unexpectedly,  and 
slip  the  money,  thirty-five  dollars,  into  his  hand,  and  pull  his  huge 
head  down  to  her  and  kiss  his  bald  spot  as  she  used  to  do  in  the  days 
before  they  were  married. 

Then  she  hesitated,  pausing  in  her  work,  her  knife  dropping 
into  her  lap,  a  half-whittled  figure  between  her  fingers.  If  not 
thirty-five  dollars,  then  at  least  fifteen  or  sixteen,  her  share  of  it. 
But  a  feeling  of  reluctance,  a  sudden  revolt  against  this  intended 
generosity,  arose  in  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'll  give  him  ten  dollars.  I'll  tell 
him  it's  all  I  can  afford.  It  is  all  I  can  afford." 

She  hastened  to  finish  the  figure  of  the  animal  she  was  then  at 
work  upon,  putting  in  the  ears  and  tail  with  a  drop  of  glue,  and 
tossing  it  into  the  basket  at  her  side.  Then  she  rose  and  went  into 
the  bedroom  and  opened  her  trunk,  taking  the  key  from  under  a 
corner  of  the  carpet  where  she  kept  it  hid. 

At  the  very  bottom  of  her  trunk,  under  her  bridal  dress,  she  kept 
her  savings.     It  was  all  in  change — half  dollars  and  dollars  for  the 
most  part,  with  here  and  there  a  gold  piece.     Long  since  the  little 
brass    match-box   had   overflowed.      Trina   kept   the   surplus   in   a 
chamois-skin  sack  she  had  made  from  an  old  chest  protector.    Just 
now,  yielding  to  an  impulse  which  often  seized  her,  she  drew  out 
the  match-box  and  the  chamois  sack,  and,  emptying  the  contents  on 
the  bed,  counted  them  carefully.    It  came  to  one  hundred  and  sixty- \ 
five  dollars,  all  told.    She  counted  it  and  recounted  it  and  made  little  \ 
piles  of  it,  and  rubbed  the  gold  pieces  between  the  folds  of  her  apron  ) 
until  they  shone. 

"Ah,  yes,  ten  dollars  is  all  I  can  afford  to  give  Mac,"  said  Trina>  \ 
"and  even  then,  think  of  it,  ten  dollars — it  will  be  four  or  five  months 
before  I  can  save  that  again.    But,  dear  old  Mac,  I  know  it  would 
make  him  feel  glad,  and  perhaps,"  she  added,  suddenly  taken  with 
an  idea,  "perhaps  Mac  will  refuse  to  take  it." 

She  took  a  ten-dollar  piece  from  the  heap  and  put  the  rest  away. 
Then  she  paused. 

"No,  not  the  gold  piece,"  she  said  to  herself.  It's  too  pretty. 
He  can  have  the  silver."  She  made  the  change  and  counted  out  ten 
silver  dollars  into  her  palm.  But  what  a  difference  it  made  in  the  ; 
appearance  and  weight  of  the  little  chamois  bag!  The  bag  was 
shrunken  and  withered,  long  wrinkles  appeared  running  downward 
from  the  draw-string.  It  was  a  lamentable  sight.  Trina  looked 


McTeague 

longingly  at  the  ten  broad  pieces  in  her  hand.  Then  suddenly  all 
her  intuitive  desire  of  saving,  her  instinct  of  hoarding,  her  love  of 
money  for  the  money's  sake,  rose  strong  within  her. 

"No,  no,  no/'  she  said.  "I  can't  do  it.  It  may  be  mean,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  It's  stronger  than  I."  She  returned  the  money  to  the 
bag  and  locked  it  and  the  brass  match-box  in  her  trunk,  turning  the 
key  with  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction. 

She  was  a  little  troubled,  however,  as  she  went  back  into  the 
sitting-room  and  took  up  her  work. 

"I  didn't  use  to  be  so  stingy,"  she  told  herself.  "Since  I  won 
in  the  lottery  I've  become  a  regular  little  miser.  It's  growing  on 
me,  but  never  mind,  it's  a  good  fault,  and,  anyhow,  I  can't  help  it." 


XI 

ON  that  particular  morning  the  McTeagues  had  risen  a  half- 
hour  earlier  than  usual  and  taken  a  hurried  breakfast  in  the  kitchen 
on  the  deal  table  with  its  oilcloth  cover.  Trina  was  house-cleaning 
that  week  and  had  a  presentiment  of  a  hard  day's  work  ahead  of 
her,  while  McTeague  remembered  a  seven  o'clock  appointment 
with  a  little  German  shoemaker. 

At  about  eight  o'clock,  when  the  dentist  had  been  in  his  office 
for  over  an  hour,  Trina  descended  upon  the  bedroom,  a  towel  about 
her  head  and  the  roller-sweeper  in  her  hand.  She  covered  the  bu 
reau  and  sewing  machine  with  sheets,  and  unhooked  the  chenille 
portieres  between  the  bedroom  and  the  sitting-room.  As  she  was 
tying  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains  at  the  window  into  great  knots, 
she  saw  old  Miss  Baker  on  the  opposite  sidewalk  in  the  street  be 
low,  and  raising  the  sash  called  down  to  her. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mrs.  McTeague,"  cried  the  retired  dressmaker, 
facing  about,  her  head  in  the  air.  Then  a  long  conversation  was 
begun,  Trina,  her  arms  folded  under  her  breast,  her  elbows  resting 
on  the  window  ledge,  willing  to  be  idle  for  a  moment;  old  Miss 
Baker,  her  market-basket  on  her  arm,  her  hands  wrapped  in  the 
ends  of  her  worsted  shawl  against  the  cold  of  the  early  morning. 
They  exchanged  phrases,  calling  to  each  other  from  window  to 
curb,  their  breath  coming  from  their  lips  in  faint  puffs  of  vapor, 
their  voices  shrill,  and  raised  to  dominate  the  clamor  of  the  waking 
street.  The  newsboys  had  made  their  appearance  on  the  street, 


McTeague  135 

together  with  the  day  laborers.  The  cable  cars  had  begun  to  fill 
up;  all  along  the  street  could  be  seen  the  shopkeepers  taking  down 
their  shutters;  some  were  still  breakfasting.  Now  and  then  a 
waiter  from  one  of  the  cheap  restaurants  crossed  from  one  sidewalk 
to  another,  balancing  on  one  palm  a  tray  covered  with  a  napkin. 

"Aren't  you  out  pretty  early  this  morning,  Miss  Baker?"  called 
Trina. 

"No,  no,"  answered  the  other.  "I'm  always  up  at  half-past  six, 
but  I  don't  always  get  out  so  soon.  I  wanted  to  get  a  nice  head  of 
cabbage  and  some  lentils  for  a  soup,  and  if  you  don't  go  to  market 
early  the  restaurants  get  all  the  best." 

"And  you've  been  to  market  already,  Miss  Baker?" 

"Oh,  my,  yes ;  and  I  got  a  fish — a  sole — see."  She  drew  the  sole 
in  question  from  her  basket. 

"Oh,  the  lovely  sole!"  exclaimed  Trina. 

"I  got  this  one  at  Spadella's ;  he  always  has  good  fish  on  Friday. 
How  is  the  doctor,  Mrs.  McTeague?" 

"Ah,  Mac  is  always  well,  thank  you,  Miss  Baker." 

"You  know,  Mrs.  Ryer  told  me,"  cried  the  little  dressmaker, 
moving  forward  a  step  out  of  the  way  of  a  "glass-put-in"  man, 
"that  Doctor  iMcTeague  pulled  a  tooth  of  that  Catholic  priest, 
Father — oh,  I  forget  his  name — anyhow,  he  pulled  his  tooth  with 
his  fingers.  Was  that  true,  Mrs.  McTeague?" 

"Oh,  of  course.  Mac  does  that  almost  all  the  time  now,  'specially 
with  front  teeth.  He's  got  a  regular  reputation  for  it.  He  says  it's 
brought  him  more  patients  than  even  the  sign  I  gave  him,"  she 
added,  pointing  to  the  big  golden  molar  projecting  from  the  office 
window. 

"With  his  fingers !  Now,  think  of  that,"  exclaimed  Miss  Baker, 
wagging  her  head.  "Isn't  he  that  strong!  It's  just  wonderful. 
Cleaning  house  to-day?"  she  inquired,  glancing  at  Trina's  toweled 
head. 

''Um  hum,"  answered  Trina.  "Maria  Macapa's  coming  in  to  help 
pretty  soon." 

At  the  mention  of  Maria's  name  the  little  old  dressmaker  sud 
denly  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Well,  if  I'm  not  here  talking  to  you  and  forgetting  something 
I  was  just  dying  to  tell  you.  Mrs.  McTeague,  whatever  in  the 
world  do  you  suppose?  Maria  and  old  Zerkow,  that  red-headed 
Polish  Jew,  the  rag-bottles-sacks  man,  you  know,  they're  going  to 
be  married." 


136  McTeague 

"No!"  cried  Trina,  in  blank  amazement.    "You  don't  mean  it." 
"Of  course  I  do.    Isn't  it  the  funniest  thing  you  ever  heard  of?" 
"Oh,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Trina,  leaning  eagerly  from  the 
window.    Miss  Baker  crossed  the  street  and  stood  just  beneath  her. 
"Well,  Maria  came  to  me  last  night  and  wanted  me  to  make 
her  a  new  gown,  said  she  wanted  something  gay,  like  what  the 
girls  at  the  candy  store  wear  when  they  go  out  with  their  young 
men.    I  couldn't  tell  what  had  got  into  the  girl,  until  finally  she  told 
me  she  wanted  something  to  get  married  in,  and  that  Zerkow  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  that  she  was  going  to  do  it.     Poor 
Maria!     I  guess  it's  the  first  and  only  offer  she  ever  received,  and 
it's  just  turned  her  head." 

"But  what  do  those  two  see  in  each  other?"  cried  Trina.  "Zer 
kow  is  a  horror,  he's  an  old  man,  and  his  hair  is  red  and  his  voice 
is  gone,  and  then  he's  a  Jew,  isn't  he  ?" 

"I  know,  I  know ;  but  it's  Maria's  only  chance  for  a  husband,  and 
she  don't  mean  to  let  it  pass.  You  know  she  isn't  quite  right  in  her 
head,  anyhow.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  poor  Maria.  But  /  can't  see 
what  Zerkow  wants  to  marry  her  for.  It's  not  possible  that  he's  in 
love  with  Maria,  it's  out  of  the  question.  Maria  hasn't  a  sou,  either, 
and  I'm  just  positive  that  Zerkow  has  lots  of  money." 

"I'll  bet  I  know  why,"  exclaimed  Trina,  with  sudden  convic 
tion;  "yes,  I  know  just  why.    See  here,  Miss  Baker,  you  know  how 
crazy  old  Zerkow  is  after  money  and  gold  and  those  sort  of  things." 
"Yes,  I  know ;  but  you  know  Maria  hasn't — " 
"Now,  just  listen.    You've  heard  Maria  tell  about  that  wonder- 
I  /  ful  service  of  gold  dishes  she  says  her  folks  used  to  own  in  Central 
I  /  America;  she's  crazy  on  that  subject,  don't  you  know.     She's  all 
y   right  on  everything  else,  but  just  start  her  on  that  service  of  gold 
plate  and  she'll  talk  you  deaf.     She  can  describe  it  just  as  though 
.     she  saw  it,  and  she  can  make  you  see  it,  too,  almost.    Now,  you  see, 
Maria  and  Zerkow  have  known  each  other  pretty  well.     Maria  goes 
to  him  every  two  weeks  or  so  to  sell  him  junk;  they  got  acquainted 
that  way,  and  I 'know  Maria's  been  dropping  in  to  see  him  pretty 
often  this  last  year,  and  sometimes  he  comes  here  to  see  her.     He's 
made  Maria  tell  him  the  story  of  that  plate  over  and  over  and  over 
again,  and  Maria  does  it  and  is  glad  to,  because  he's  the  only  one 
that  believes  it.     Now  he's  going  to  marry  her  just  so's  he  can  i^ar 
that  story  every  day,  every  hour.     He's  pretty  near  as  crazy  on  the 
subject  as  Maria  is.     They're  a  pair  for  you,  aren't  they?     Both 
crazy  over  a  lot  of  gold  dishes  that  never  existed.    Perhaps  Mafia'll 


McTeague  137 

marry  him  because  it's  her  only  chance  to  get  a  husband,  but  I'm  sure 
it's  more  for  the  reason  that  she's  got  some  one  to  talk  to  now  who 
believes  her  story.  Don't  you  think  I'm  right?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  guess  you're  right,"  admitted  Miss  Baker. 

"But  it's  a  queer  match  any  way  you  put  it,"  said  Trina,  musingly. 

"Ah,  you  may  well  say  that,"  returned  the  other,  nodding  her 
head.  There  was  a  silence.  For  a  long  moment  the  dentist's  wife 
and  the  retired  dressmaker,  the  one  at  the  window,  the  other  on  the 
sidewalk,  remained  lost  in  thought,  wondering  over  the  strangeness 
of  the  affair. 

But  suddenly  there  was  a  diversion.  Alexander,  Marcus 
SchoulerY  Irish/ setter,  whom  his  master  had  long  since  allowed  the 
liberty  of  running  untrammeled  about  the  neighborhood,  turned  the 
corner  briskly  and  came  trotting  along  the- sidewalk  where  Miss 
Baker  stood.  At  the  same  moment  the  Scotc$  collie  who  had  at 
one  time  belonged  to  the  branch  post-office 'issued  from  the  side 
door  of  a  house  not  fifty  feet  away.  In  an  instant  the  two  enemies 
had  recognized  each  other.  They  halted  abruptly,  their  fore  feet 
planted  rigidly.  Trina  uttered  a  little  cry. 

"Oh,  look  out,  Miss  Baker.  Those  two  dogs  hate  each  other  \J| 
just  like  humans.  You  best  look  out  They'll  right  sureT** — Miss  ^ 
Bakers~oughF  safety  in  a  nearby  vestibule,  whence  she  peered  forth 
at  the  scene,  very  interested  and  curious.  Maria  Macapa's  head 
thrust  itself  from  one  of  the  top-story  windows  of  the  flat,  with  a 
shrill  cry.  Even  McTeague's  huge  form  appeared  above  the  half 
curtains  of  the  "Parlor"  windows,  while  over  his  shoulder  could  be 
seen  the  face  of  the  "patient,"  a  napkin  tucked  in  his  collar,  the 
rubber  dam  depending  from  his  mouth.  All  the  flat  knew  of  the 
feud  between  the  dogs,  but  never  before  had  the  pair  been  brought 
face  to  face. 

Meanwhile,  the  collie  and  the  setter  had  drawn  near  to  each 
other;  five  feet  apart  they  paused  as  if  by  mutual  consent.  The 
collie  turned  sidewise  to  the  setter;  the  setter  instantly  wheeled 
himself  flank  on  to  the  collie.  Their  tails  rose  and  stiffened,  they 
raised  their  lips  over  their  long  white  fangs,  the  napes  of  their 
necks  bristled,  and  they  showed  each  other  the  vicious  whites  of 
their  eyes,  while  they  drew  in  their  breaths  with  prolonged  and 
rasping  snarls.  Each  dog  seemed  to  be  the  personification  of  fury 
and  unsatisfied  hate.  They  began  to  circle  about  each  other  with  in 
finite  slowness,  walking  stiff-legged  and  upon  the  very  points  of 
their  feet.  Then  they  wheeled  about  and  began  to  circle  in  the  op- 


McTeague 

/    posite   direction.      Twice   they    repeated   this   motion,   their   snarls 

\    growing  louder.     But  still  they  did  not  come  together,  and  the  dis- 

\   tance  of  five   feet  between  them  was  maintained  with   an  almost 

/    mathematical  precision.     It  was  magnificent,  but  it  was  not  war. 

/    Then  the  setter,  pausing  in  his  walk,  turned  his  head  slowly  from 

his  enemy.    The  collie  sniffed  the  air  and  pretended  an  interest  in 

cA  an  old  shoe  lying  in  the  gutter.    Gradually  and  with  all  the  dignity 

)  of  monarchs  they  moved  away  from  each  other.    Alexander  stalked 

back  to  the  corner  of  the  street.    The  collie  paced  toward  the  side 

;   gate  whence  he  had  issued,  affecting  to  remember  something  of 

great  importance.     They  disappeared.     Once  out  of  sight  of  one 

\  another  they  began  to  bark  furiously. 

"Well,  I  never!"  exclaimed  Trina  in  great  disgust.  "The  way 
those  two  dogs  have  been  carrying  on  you'd  'a'  thought  they  would 
'a'  just  torn  each  other  to  pieces  when  they  had  the  chance,  and 
here  I'm  wasting  the  whole  morning — "  she  closed  her  window  with 
a  bang. 

"Sick  'im,  sick  'im,"  called  Maria  Macapa,  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
promote  a  fight. 

Old  Miss  Baker  came  out  of  the  vestibule,  pursing  her  lips,  quite 
put  out  at  the  fiasco.  "And  after  all  that  fuss,"  she  said  to  herself 
aggrievedly. 

The  little  dressmaker  bought  an  envelope  of  nasturtium  seeds  at 
the  florist's,  and  returned  to  her  tiny  room  in  the  flat.  But  as  she 
slowly  mounted  the  first  flight  of  steps  she  suddenly  came  face  to 
face  with  Old  Grannis,  who  was  coming  down.  It  was  between 
eight  and  nine,  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  his  little  dog  hospital,  no 
doubt.  Instantly  Miss  Baker  was  seized  with  trepidation,  her 
curious  little  false  curls  shook,  a  faint — a  very  faint — flush  came 
into  her  withered  cheeks,  and  her  heart  beat  so  violently  under  the 
worsted  shawl  that  she  felt  obliged  to  shift  the  market-basket  to  her 
other  arm  and  put  out  her  free  hand  to  steady  herself  against  the  rail. 
On  his  part,  Old  Grannis  was  instantly  overwhelmed  with  con 
fusion.  His  awkwardness  seemed  to  paralyze  his  limbs,  his  lips 
twitched  and  turned  dry,  his  hand  went  tremblingly  to  his  chin.  But 
what  added  to  Miss  Baker's  miserable  embarrassment  on  this  occa 
sion  was  the  fact  that  the  old. Englishman  should  meet  her  thus, 
carrying  a  sordid  market-basket  full  of  sordid  fish  and  cabbage.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  malicious  fate  persisted  in  bringing  the  two  old  people 
face  to  face  at  the  most  inopportune  moments. 

Just  now,  however,  a  veritable  catastrophe  occurred.    The  little 


McTeague  139 

old  dressmaker  changed  her  basket  to  her  other  arm  at  precisely  the 
wrong  moment,  and  Old  Grannis,  hastening  to  pass,  removing  his 
hat  in  a  hurried  salutation,  struck  it  with  his  forearm,  knocking  it 
from  her  grasp,  and  sending  it  rolling  and  bumping  down  the  stairs. 
The  sole  fell  flat  upon  the  first  landing;  the  lentils  scattered  them 
selves  over  the  entire  flight;  while  the  cabbage,  leaping  from  step 
to  step,  thundered  down  the  incline  and  brought  up  against  the  street 
door  with  a  shock  that  reverberated  through  the  entire  building. 

The  little  retired  dressmaker,  horribly  vexed,  nervous  and  em 
barrassed,  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  back  the  tears.  Old  Grannis 
stood  for  a  moment  with  averted  eyes,  murmuring:  "Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry,  I'm  so  sorry.  I — I  really — I  beg  your  pardon,  really — really." 

Marcus  Schouler,  coming  downstairs  from  his  room,  saved  the 
situation. 

"Hello,  people,"  he  cried.  "By  damn !  you've  upset  your  basket 
— you  have,  for  a  fact.  Here,  let's  pick  um  up."  He  and  Old 
Grannis  went  up  and  down  the  flight,  gathering  up  the  fish,  the 
lentils,  and  the  sadly  battered  cabbage.  Marcus  was  raging  over 
the  pusillanimity  of  Alexander,  of  which  Maria  had  just  told  him. 

"I'll  cut  him  in  two  with  the  whip,"  he  shouted.  "I  will,  I  will,  I 
say  I  will,  for  a  fact.  He  wouldn't  fight,  hey?  I'll  give  um  all 
the  fight  he  wants,  nasty,  mangy  cur.  If  he  won't  fight  he  won't 
eat.  I'm  going  to  get  the  butcher's  bull  pup  and  I'll  put  um  both 
in  a  bag  and  shake  um  up.  I  will,  for  a  fact,  and  I  guess  Alec  will 
fight.  Come  along,  Mister  Grannie,"  and  he  took  the  old  English 
man  away. 

Little  Miss  Baker  hastened  to  her  room  and  locked  herself  in. 
She  was  excited  and  upset  during  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  listened 
eagerly  for  Old  Grannis's  return  that  evening.  He  went  instantly  to 
work  binding  up  "The  Breeder  and  Sportsman,"  and  back  numbers 
of  the  "Nation."  She  heard  him  softly  draw  his  chair  and  the  table 
on  which  he  had  placed  his  little  binding  apparatus  close  to  the  wall. 
At  once  she  did  the  same,  brewing  herself  a  cup  of  tea.  All  through 
that  evening  the  two  old  people  "kept  company"  with  each  other, 
after  their  own  peculiar  fashion.  "Setting  out  with  each  other"  Miss 
Baker  had  begun  to  call  it.  That  they  had  been  presented,  that  they 
had  even  been  forced  to  talk  together,  had  made  no  change  in  their 
relative  positions.  Almost  immediately  they  had  fallen  back  into 
their  old  ways  again,  quite  unable  to  master  their  timidity,  to  over 
come  the  stifling  embarrassment  that  seized  upon  them  when  in  each 
other's  presence.  It  was  a  sort  of  hypnotism,  a  thing  stronger  than 


140  McTeague 

themselves.  But  they  were  not  altogether  dissatisfied  with  the  way 
things  had  come  to  be.  It  was  their  little  romance,  their  last, 
and  they  were  living  through  it  with  supreme  enjoyment  and  calm 
contentment. 

Marcus  Schouler  still  occupied  his  old  room  on  the  floor  above  the 
McTeagues.  They  saw  but  little  of  him,  however.  At  long  in 
tervals  the  dentist  or  his  wife  met  him  on  the  stairs  of  the  flat. 
Sometimes  he  would  stop  and  talk  with  Trina,  inquiring  after  the 
Sieppes,  asking  her  if  Mr.  Sieppe  had  yet  heard  of  any  one  with 
whom  he,  Marcus,  could  "go  in  with  on  a  ranch."  McTeague 
Marcus  merely  nodded  to.  Never  had  the  quarrel_between_the  two 
men  been  completely  patched  up.  It  did  not  "seem  possible  to  the 
dentist  now  that  Marcus  had  ever  been  his  "pal,"  that  they  had  ever 
taken  long  walks  together.  He  was  sorry  that  he  had  treated  Mar 
cus  gratis  for  an  ulcerated  tooth,  while  Marcus  daily  recalled  the 
fact  that  he  had  given  up  his  "girl"  to  his  friend — the  girl  who 
had  won  a  fortune — as  the  great  mistake  of  his  life.  Only  once 
since  the  wedding  had  he  called  upon  Trina,  at  a  time  when  he 
knew  McTeague  would  be  out.  Trina  had  shown  him  through  the 
rooms  and  had  told  him,  innocently  enough,  how  gay  was  their  life 
there.  Marcus  had  come  away  fairly  sick  with  envy;  his  rancor 
against  the  dentist — and  against  himself,  for  that  matter — knew  no 
bounds.  "And  you  might  'a'  had  it  all  yourself,  Marcus  Schouler," 
he  muttered  to  himself  on  the  stairs.  "You  mush-head,  you  damn 
fool!" 

Meanwhile,  Marcus  was  becoming  involved  in  the  politics  of  his 
ward.  As  secretary  of  the  Polk  Street  Improvement  Club — which 
soon  developed  into  quite  an  affair  and  began  to  assume  the  pro 
portions  of  a  Republican  political  machine — he  found  he  could  make 
a  little,  a  very  little,  more  than  "~enonglf  to  live  on.  At  once  he  had 
given  up  his  position  as  Old  Grannis's  assistant.  Marcus  felt  that 
he  needed  a  wider  sphere.  He  had  his  eye  upon  a  place  connected 
with  the  city  pound.  When  the  great  railroad  strike  occurred,  he 
promptly  got  himself  engaged  as  deputy  sheriff,  and  spent  a 
memorable  week  in  Sacramento,,  where  he  involved  himself  in  more 
/  than  one  terrible  melee  with  the  strikers.  Marcus  had  that  quick- 
j  ness  of  temper  and  passionate  readiness  to  take  offence  which  passes 
among  his  class  for  bravery.  But  whatever  were  his  motives,  his 
promptness  to  face  danger  could  not  for  a  moment  be  doubted.  After 
the  strike  he  returned  to  Polk  Street,  and  throwing  himself  into  the 
Improvement  Club,  heart,  soul,  and  body,  soon  became  one  of  its 


McTeague  141 

ruling  spirits.  In  a  certain  local  election,  where  a  huge  paving  con 
tract  was  at  stake,  the  club  made  itself  felt  in  the  ward,  and  Marcus 
so  managed  his  cards  and  pulled  his  wires  that,  at  the  end  of  the 
matter,  he  found  himself  some  four  hundred  dollars  to  the  good. 

When  McTeague  came  out  of  his  "Parlors"  at  noon  of  the 
day  upon  which  Trina  had  heard  the  news  of  Maria  Macapa's  in 
tended  marriage,  he  found  Trina  burning  coffee  on  a  shovel  in  the 
sitting-room.  Try  as  she  would,  Trina  could  never  quite  eradicate 
from  their  rooms  a  certain  faint  and  indefinable  odor,  particularly 
offensive  to  her.  The  smell  of  the  photographer's  chemicals  per 
sisted  in  spite  of  all  Trina  could  do  to  combat  it.  She  burned 
pastilles  and  Chinese  punk,  and  even,  as  now,  coffee  on  a  shovel,  all 
to  no  purpose.  Indeed,  the  only  drawback  to  their  delightful  home 
was  the  general  unpleasant  smell  that  pervaded  it — a  smell  that  arose 
partly  from  the  photographer's  chemicals,  partly  from  the  cooking 
in  the  little  kitchen,  and  partly  from  the  ether  and  creosote  of  the 
dentist's  "Parlors." 

As  McTeague  came  in  to  lunch  on  this  occasion,  he  found  the 
table  already  laid,  a  red  cloth  figured  with  white  flowers  was  spread, 
and  as  he  took  his  seat  his  wife  put  down  the  shovel  on  a  chair  and 
brought  in  the  stewed  codfish  and  the  pot  of  chocolate.  As  he  tucked 
his  napkin  into  his  enormous  collar,  McTeague  looked  vaguely  about 
the  room,  rolling  his  eyes. 

During  the  three  years  of  their  married  life  the  McTeagues  had 
made  but  few  additions  to  their  furniture,  Trina  declaring  that  they 
could  not  afford  it.  The  sitting-room  could  boast  of  but  three  new 
ornaments.  Over  the  melodeon  hung  their  marriage  certificate  in 
a  black  frame.  It  was  balanced  upon  one  side  by  Trina's  wedding 
bouquet  under  a  glass  case,  preserved  by  some  fearful  unknown 
process,  and  upon  the  other  by  the  photograph  of  Trina  and  the 
dentist  in  their  wedding  finery.  This  latter  picture  was  quite  an 
affair,  and  had  been  taken  immediately  after  the  wedding,  while 
McTeague's  broadcloth  was  still  new,  and  before  Trina's  silks  and 
veil  had  lost  their  stiffness.  It  represented  Trina,  her  veil  thrown 
back,  sitting  very  straight  in  a  rep  armchair,  her  elbows  well  in  at 
her  sides,  holding  her  bouquet  of  cut  flowers  directly  before  her. 
The  dentist  stood  at  her  side,  one  hand  on  her  shoulder,  the  other 
thrust  into  the  breast  of  his  "Prince  Albert,"  his  chin  in  the  air,  his 
eyes  to  one  side,  his  left  foot  forward  in  the  attitude  of  a  Secretary 
of  State. 

"Say,  Trina,"  said  McTeague,  his  mouth  full  of  codfish,  "Heise 


McTeague 

looked  in  on  me  this  morning.  He  says,  'What's  the  matter  with  a 
basket  picnic  over  at  Schuetzen  Park  next  Tuesday?'  You  know 
the  paper-hangers  are  going  to  be  in  the  'Parlors'  all  that  day,  so 
I'll  have  a  holiday.  That:s  what  made  Heise  think  of  it.  Heise 
says  he'll  get  the  Ryers  to  go  too.  It's  the  anniversary  of  their  wed 
ding  day.  We'll  ask  Selina  to  go;  she  can  meet  us  on  the  other 
side.  Come  on,  let's  go,  huh,  will  you?" 

Trina  still  had  her  mania  for  family  picnics,  which  had  been  one 
of  the  Sieppes'  most  cherished  customs ;  but  now  there  were  other 
considerations. 

"I  don't  know  as  we  can  afford  it  this  month,  Mac,"  she  said, 
pouring  th-e  chocolate.  "I  got  to  pay  the  gas  bill  next  week,  and 
there's  the  papering  of  your  office  to  be  paid  for  some  time." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  answered  her  husband.  "But  I  got  a  new 
patient  this  week,  had  two  molars  and  an  upper  incisor  filled  at  the 
very  first  sitting,  and  he's  going  to  bring  his  children  round.  He's  a 
barber  on  the  next  block." 

"Well,  you  pay  half,  then,"  said  Trina.  "It'll  cost  three  or  four 
dollars  at  the  very  least;  and  mind,  the  Heises  pay  their  own  fare 
both  ways,  'Mac,  and  everybody  gets  their  own  lunch.  Yes,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  "I'll  write  and  have  Selina  join  us.  I  haven't 
seen  Selina  in  months.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  put  up  a  lunch  for  her, 
though,"  admitted  Trina,  "the  way  we  did  last  time,  because  she 
lives  in  a  boarding-house  now,  and  they  make  a  fuss  about  putting 
up  a  lunch." 

They  could  count  on  pleasant  weather  at  this  time  of  the  year- 
it  was  May — and  that  particular  Tuesday  was  all  that  could  be  de 
sired.  The  party  assembled  at  the  ferry  slip  at  nine  o'clock,  laden 
with  baskets.  The  McTeagues  came  last  of  all ;  Ryer  and  his  wife 
had  already  boarded  the  boat.  They  met  the  Heises  in  the  waiting- 
room. 

"Hello,  Doctor,"  cried  the  harness-maker  as  the  McTeagues 
came  up.  "This  is  what  you'd  call  an  old  folks'  picnic,  all  married 
people  this  time." 

The  party  foregathered  on  the  upper  deck  as  the  boat  started, 
and  sat  down  to  listen  to  the  band  of  Italian  musicians  who  were 
playing  outside  this  morning  because  of  the  fineness  of  the  weather. 

"Oh,  we're  going  to  have  lots  of  fun,"  cried  Trina.  "If  it's 
anything  I  do  love  it's  a  picnic.  Do  you  remember  our  first  picnic, 
Mac?" 

"Sure,  sure,"  replied  the  dentist ;  "we  had  a  Gotha  truffle." 


McTeague  143 

"And  August  lost  his  steamboat,"  put  in  Trina,  "and  papa 
smacked  him.  I  remember  it  just  as  well." 

"Why,  look  here,"  said  Mrs.  Heise,  nodding  at  a  figure  coming 
up  the  companion-way.  "Ain't  that  Mr.  Schouler?" 

It  was  Marcus,  sure  enough.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the  party 
he  gaped  at  them  a  moment  in  blank  astonishment,  and  then  ran  up, 
his  eyes  wide. 

"Well,  by  damn !"  he  exclaimed,  excitedly.  "What's  up?  Where 
you  all  going,  anyhow?  Say,  ain't  ut  queer  we  should  all  run  up 
against  each  other  like  this?"  He  made  great  sweeping  bows  to 
the  three  women,  and  shook  hands  with  "Cousin  Trina,"  adding,  as 
he  turned  to  the  men  of  the  party,  "Glad  to  see  you,  Mister  Heise. 
How  do,  Mister  Ryer  ?"  The  dentist,  who  had  formulated  some  sort 
of  reserved  greeting,  he  ignored  completely.  McTeague  settled 
himself  in  his  seat,  growling  inarticulately  behind  his  mustache. 

"Say,  say,  what's  all  up,  anyhow?"  cried  Marcus  again. 

"It's  a  picnic,"  exclaimed  the  three  women,  all  speaking  at  once ; 
and  Trina  added,  "We're  going  over  to  the  same  old  Schuetzen 
Park  again.  But  you're  all  fixed  up  yourself,  Cousin  Mark;  you 
look  as  though  you  were  going  somewhere  yourself." 

In  fact,  Marcus  was  dressed  with  great  care.  He  wore  a  new 
pair  of  slate-blue  trousers,  a  black  "cutaway,"  and  a  white  lawn 
"tie"  (for  him  the  symbol  of  the  height  of  elegance).  He  carried 
also  his  cane,  a  thin  wand  of  ebony  with  a  gold  head,  presented  to 
him  by  the  Improvement  Club  in  "recognition  of  services." 

"That's  right,  that's  right,"  said  Marcus,  with  a  grin.  "I'm 
takun  a  holiday  myself  to-day.  I  had  a  bit  of  business  to  do  over  at 
Oakland,  an'  I  thought  I'd  go  up  to  B  Street  afterward  and  see 
Selina.  I  haven't  called  on — " 

But  the  party  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Why,  Selina  is  going  with  us." 

"She's  going  to  meet  us  at  the  Schuetzen  Park  station,"  explained 
Trina. 

Marcus's  business  in  Oakland  was  a  fiction.  He  was  crossing 
the  bay  that"  morning  solely  to  see  Selirra.  Marcus  had  "taken  up 
with"  Selina  a  little  after  Trina  had  married,  and  had  been  "rush 
ing"  her  ever  since,  dazzled  and  attracted  by  her  accomplishments, 
for  which  he  pretended  a  great  respect.  At  the  prospect  of  missing 
Selina  on  this  occasion,  he  was  genuinely  disappointed.  His  vexa 
tion  at  once  assumed  the  form  of  exasperation  against  McTeague, 
It  was  all  the  dentist's  fault.  Ah,  McTeague  was  coming  between 


McTeague 

him  and  Selina  now  as  he  had  come  between  him  and  Trina.  Best 
look  out,  by  damn !  how  he  monkeyed  with  him  now.  Instantly  his 
face  flamed  and  he  glanced  over  furiously  at  the  dentist,  who,  catch 
ing  his  eye,  began  again  to  mutter  behind  his  mustache.  . 

"Well,  say,"  began  Mrs.  Ryer,  with  some  hesitation,  looking  to 
Ryer  for  approval,  "why  can't  Marcus  come  along  with  us?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Heise,  disregarding  her  hus 
band's  vigorous  nudges.  "I  guess  we  got  lunch  enough  to  go 
round,  all  right ;  don't  you  say  so,  Mrs.  McTeague  ?" 

Thus  appealed  to,  Trina  could  only  concur. 

"Why,  of  course,  Cousin  Mark,"  she  said;  "of  course,  come 
along  with  us  if  you  want  to." 

"Why,  you  bet  I  will,"  cried  Marcus,  enthusiastic  in  an  instant. 
"Say,  this  is  outa  sight;  it  is,  for  a  fact;  a  picnic — ah,  sure — and 
we'll  meet  Selina  at  the  station." 

Just  as  the  boat  was  passing  Goat  Island,  the  harness-maker 
proposed  that  the  men  of  the  party  should  go  down  to  the  bar  on  the 
lower  deck  and  shake  for  the  drinks.  The  idea  had  an  immediate 
success. 

"Have  to  see  you  on  that,"  said  Ryer. 

"By  damn,  we'll  have  a  drink !    Yes,  sir,  we  will,  for  a  fact." 

"Sure,  sure,  drinks,  that's  the  word." 

At  the  bar  Heise  and  Ryer  ordered  cocktails,  Marcus  called  for 
a  "creme  Yvette"  in  order  to  astonish  the  others.  The  dentist 
spoke  for  a  glass  of  beer. 

"Say,  look  here,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Heise  as  they  took  their 
glasses.  "Look  here,  you  fellahs,"  he  had  turned  to  Marcus  and  the 
dentist.  "You  two  fellahs  have  had  a  grouch  at  each  other  for  the 
last  year  or  so ;  now  what's  the  matter  with  your  shaking  hands  and 
calling  quits?" 

McTeague  was  at  once  overcome  with  a  great  feeling  of  mag 
nanimity.  He  put  out  his  great  hand. 

"I  got  nothing  against  Marcus,"  he  growled. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  shake,"  admitted  Marcus,  a  little  shame 
facedly,  as  their  palms  touched.  "I  guess  that's  all  right." 

"That's  the  idea,"  exclaimed  Heise,  delighted  at  his  success. 
"Come  on,  boys,  now  let's  drink.".  Their  elbows  crooked  and  they 
drank  silently. 

Their  picnic  that  day  was  very  jolly.  Nothing  had  changed 
at  Schuetzen  Park  since  the  day  of  that  other  memorable  Sieppe 
picnic  four  years  previous.  After  lunch  the  men  took  themselves 


McTeague  145 

off  to  the  rifle  range,  while  Selina,  Trina,  and  the  other  two  women 
put  away  the  dishes.  An  hour  later  the  men  joined  them  in  great 
spirits.  Ryer  had  won  the  impromptu  match  which  they  had  ar 
ranged,  making  quite  a  wonderful  score,  which  included  three  clean 
bull  s-eyes,  while  McTeague  had  not  been  able  even  to  hit  the  target 
itself. 

Their  shooting  match  had  awakened  a  spirit  of  rivalry  in  the 
men,  and  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  passed  in  athletic  exercises  be 
tween  them.  The  women  sat  on  the  slope  of  the  grass,  their  hats  and 
gloves  laid  aside,  watching  the  men  as  they  strove  together.  Aroused 
by  the  little  feminine  cries  of  wonder  and  the  clapping  of  their  un 
gloved  palms,  these  latter  began  to  show  off  at  once.  They  took 
off  their  coats  and  vests,  even  their  neckties  and  collars,  and  worked 
themselves  into  a  lather  of  perspiration  for  the  sake  of  making  an 
impression  on  their  wives.  They  ran  hundred-yard  sprints  on  the 
cinder  path  and  executed  clumsy  feats  on  the  rings  and  on  the 
parallel  bars.  They  even  found  a  huge  round  stone  on  the  beach 
and  "put  the  shot"  for  a  while.  As  long  as  it  was  a  question  of 
agility,  Marcus  was  easily  the  best  of  the  four ;  but  the  dentist's 
enormous  strength,  his  crude,  untutored  brute  force,  was  a  matter 
of  wonder  for  the  entire  party.  McTeague  cracked  English  wal 
nuts — taken  from  the  lunch  baskets — in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  and 
tossed  the  round  stone  a  full  five  feet  beyond  their  best  mark.  Heise 
believed  himself  to  be  particularly  strong  in  the  wrists,  but  the  den 
tist,  using  but  one  hand,  twisted  a  cane  out  of  Heise's  two  with  a 
wrench  that  all  but  sprained  the  harness-maker's  arm.  Then  the 
dentist  raised  weights  and  chinned  himself  on  the  rings  till  they 
thought  he  would  never  tire. 

His  great  success  quite  turned  his  head;  he  strutted  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  the  women,  his  chest  thrown  out,  and  his  great 
mouth  perpetually  expanded  in  a  triumphant  grin.  As  he  felt  his 
strength  more  and  more,  he  began  to  abuse  it ;  he  domineered  over 
the  others,  gripping  suddenly  at  their  arms  till  they  squirmed  with 
pain,  and  slapping  Marcus  on  the  back  so  that  he  gasped  and  gagged 
for  breath.  The  childish  vanity  of  the  great  fellow  was  as  undis 
guised  as  that  of  a  schoolboy.  He  began  to  tell  of  wonderful  feats 
of  strength  he  had  accomplished  when  he  was  a  young  man.  Why, 
at  one  time  he  had  knocked  down  a  half-grown  heifer  with  a  blow 
of  his  fist  between  the  eyes,  sure,  and  the  heifer  had  just  stiffened 
out  and  trembled  all  over  and  died  without  getting  up. 

McTeague  told  this  story  again,  and  yet  again.    All  through  the 

G—III— NORRIS 


146  McTeague 

afternoon  he  could  be  overheard  relating  the  wonder  to  any  one 
who  would  listen,  exaggerating  the  effect  of  his  blow,  inventing  ter 
rific  details.  Why,  the  heifer  had  just  frothed  at  the  mouth,  and  his 
eyes  had  rolled  up — ah,  sure,  his  eyes  rolled  up  just  like  that — and 
the  butcher  had  said  his  skull  was  all  mashed  in — just  all  mashed 
in,  sure,  that's  the  word — just  as  if  from  a  sledge-hammer. 

Notwithstanding  his  reconciliation  with  the  dentist  on  the  boat, 
Marcus's  gorge  rose  within  him  at  McTeague's  boasting  swagger. 
When  McTeague  had  slapped  him  on  the  back,  Marcus  had  retired 
to  some  little  distance  while  he  recovered  his  breath,  and  glared 
at  the  dentist  fiercely  as  he  strode  up  and  down,  glorying  in  the 
admiring  glances  of  the  women. 

"Ah,  one-horse  dentist,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth.  "Ah, 
zinc-plugger,  cow-killer.  I'd  like  to  show  you  once,  you  overgrown 
mucker,  you — you — cow-killer!" 

When  he  rejoined  the  group,  he  found  them  preparing  for  a 
wrestling  bout. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Heise,  "we'll  have  a  tournament.  Mar 
cus  and  I  will  rastle,  and  Doc  and  Ryer,  and  then  the  winners  will 
rastle  each  other." 

The  women  clapped  their  hands  excitedly.  This  would  be  ex 
citing.  Trina  cried: 

"Better  let  me  hold  your  money,  Mac,  and  your  keys,  so  as  you 
won't  lose  them  out  of  your  pockets."  The  men  gave  their  valu 
ables  into  the  keeping  of  their  wives  and  promptly  set  to  work. 

The  dentist  thrust  Ryer  down  without  even  changing  his  grip; 
Marcus  and  the  harness-maker  struggled  together  for  a  few  mo 
ments  till  Heise  all  at  once  slipped  on  a  bit  of  turf  and  fell  back 
ward.  As  they  toppled  over  together,  Marcus  writhed  himself  from 
under  his  opponent,  and,  as  they  reached  the  ground,  forced  down 
first  one  shoulder  and  then  the  other. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  panted  the  harness-maker,  good-naturedly, 
"I'm  down.  It's  up  to  you  and  Doc  now,"  he  added,  as  he  got  to 
his  feet. 

The  match  between  McTeague  and  Marcus  promised  to  be  in 
teresting.  The  dentist,  of  course,  had  an  enormous  advantage  in 
point  of  strength,  but  Marcus  prided  himself  on  his  wrestling,  and 
knew  something  about  strangle-holds  and  half-Nelsons.  The  men 
drew  back  to  allow  them  a  free  space  as  they  faced  each  other,  while 
Trina  and  the  other  women  rose  to  their  feet  in  their  excitement. 
"I  bet  Mac  will  throw  him,  all  the  same,"  said  Trina. 


McTeague  147 

"All  ready !"  cried  Ryer. 

The  dentist  and  Marcus  stepped  forward,  eying  each  other  cau 
tiously.  They  circled  around  the  impromptu  ring,  Marcus  watching 
eagerly  for  an  opening.  He  ground  his  teeth,  telling  himself  he 
would  throw  McTeague  if  it  killed  him.  Ah,  he'd  show  him  now. 
Suddenly  the  two  men  caught  at  each  other;  Marcus  went  to  his 
knees.  The  dentist  threw  his  vast  bulk  on  his  adversary's  shoulders 
and,  thrusting  a  huge  palm  against  his  face,  pushed  him  backward 
and  downward.  It  was  out  of  the  question  to  resist  that  enormous 
strength.  Marcus  wrenched  himself  over  and  fell  face  downward 
on  the  ground. 

McTeague  rose  on  the  instant  with  a  great  laugh  of  exultation. 

"You're  down !"  he  exclaimed. 

Marcus  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Down  nothing,"  he  vociferated,  with  clinched  fists.  "Down 
nothing,  by  damn !  You  got  to  throw  me  so's  my  shoulders  touch." 

McTeague  was  stalking  about,  swelling  with  pride. 

"Hoh,  you're  down.  I  threw  you.  Didn't  I  throw  him,  Trina? 
Hoh,  you  can't  rastle  me." 

Marcus  capered  with  rage. 

"You  didn't!  you  didn't!  you  didn't!  and  you  can't!  You  got 
to  give  me  another  try." 

The  other  men  came  crowding  up.  Everybody  was  talking  at 
once. 

"He's  right." 

"You  didn't  throw  him." 

"Both  his  shoulders  at  the  same  time." 

Trina  clapped  and  waved  her  hand  at  McTeague  from  where 
she  stood  on  the  little  slope  of  lawn  above  the  wrestlers.  Marcus 
broke  through  the  group,  shaking  all  over  with  excitement  and  rage. 

"I  tell  you  that  ain't  the  way  to  rastle.  You've  got  to  throw  a 
man  so's  his  shoulders  touch.  You  got  to  give  me  another  bout." 

"That's  straight,"  put  in  Heise,  "both  his  shoulders  down  at  the 
same  time.  Try  it  again.  You  and  Schouler  have  another  try." 

McTeague  was  bewildered  by  so  much  simultaneous  talk.  He 
could  not  make  out  what  it  was  all  about.  Could  he  have  offended 
Marcus  again?" 

"What?  What?  Huh?  What  is  it?"  he  exclaimed  in  per 
plexity,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Come  on,  you  must  rastle  me  again,"  shouted  Marcus. 

"Sure,   sure,"   cried  the   dentist.     "I'll  rastle  you  again.     I'll 


148  McTeague 

rastle  everybody,"  he  cried,  suddenly  struck  with  an  idea.  Trina 
looked  on  in  some  apprehension. 

"Mark  gets  so  mad,"  she  said,  half  aloud. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Selina.  "Mister  Schouler's  got  an  awful  quick 
temper,  but  he  ain't  afraid  of  anything." 

"All  ready !"  shouted  Ryer. 

This  time  Marcus  was  more  careful.  Twice,  as  McTeague 
rushed  at  him,  he  slipped  cleverly  away.  But  as  the  dentist  came 
in  a  third  time,  with  his  head  bowed,  Marcus,  raising  himself  to  his 
full  height,  caught  him  with  both  arms  around  the  neck.  The  den 
tist  gripped  at  him  and  rent  away  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt.  There 
was  a  great  laugh. 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,"  cried  Mrs.  Ryer. 

The  two  men  were  grappling  at  each  other  wildly.  The  party 
could  hear  them  panting  and  grunting  as  they  labored  and  strug 
gled.  Their  boots  tore  up  great  clods  of  turf.  Suddenly  they  came 
to  the  ground  with  a  tremendous  shock.  But  even  as  they  were  in 
the  act  of  falling,  Marcus,  like  a  very  eel,  writhed  in  the  dentist's 
clasp  and  fell  upon  his  side.  McTeague  crashed  down  upon  him 
like  the  collapse  of  a  felled  ox. 

"Now,  you  gotta  turn  him  on  his  back,"  shouted  Heise  to  the 
dentist.  "He  ain't  down  if  you  don't." 

With  his  huge  salient  chin  digging  into  Marcus's  shoulder,  the 
dentist  heaved  and  tugged.  His  face  was  flaming,  his  huge  shock 
of  yellow  hair  fell  over  his  forehead,  matted  with  sweat.  Marcus 
began  to  yield  despite  his  frantic  efforts.  One  shoulder  was  down, 
now  the  other  began  to  go ;  gradually,  gradually  it  was  forced  over. 
The  little  audience  held  its  breath  in  the  suspense  of  the  moment. 
Selina  broke  the  silence,  calling  out  shrilly: 

"Ain't  Doctor  McTeague  just  that  strong!" 

Marcus  heard  it,  and  his  fury  came  instantly  to  a  head.  Rage 
at  his  defeat  at  the  hands  of  the  dentist  and  before  Selina's  eyes, 
the  hate  he  still  bore  his  old-time  "pal"  and  the  impotent  wrath  of 
his  own  powerlessness  were  suddenly  unleashed. 

"God  damn  you !  get  off  of  me,"  he  cried  under  his  breath,  spit 
ting  the  words  as  a  snake  spits  its  venom.  The  little  audience  ut 
tered  a  cry.  With  the  oath  Marcus  had  twisted  his  head  and  had 
bitten  through  the  lobe  of  the  defttisifs_ear.  There  was  a  sudden 
flash  of  bright-red  blootl." 

Then  followed  a  terrible  scene.  The  brute  that  in  McTeague 
lay  so  close  to  the  surface  leaped  instantly .  Jojife,  monstrous,  not 


McTeague  149 

to  be  resisted.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  shrill  and  meaningless 
clamor,  totally  unlike  the  ordinary  bass  of  his  speaking  tones.  It 
was  the  hideous  yelling  of  a  hurt  beast,  the  squealing  of  a  woundeH" 

elephant: — ffe  f raffled  "no  woids  rin~th^msh-of"hTgh^pitched-sound 

tRaT"is*sued  from  his  wide-open  mouth  there  was  nothing  articulate. 
It  was  something  no  longer  human;  it  was  rather  an  echo  from  the 
jungle:" 

Sluggish  enough  and  slow  to  anger  on  ordinary  occasions,  Mc 
Teague  when  finally  aroused  became  another  man.    His  rage  was  a  / 
kind  of  obsession,  an  evil  mania,  the  drunkenness  of  passion,  the  J 
exalted  and  perv6fteU  fury  Of  the  Berserker,  blind  and  deaf,  a  thing ' 
insensate:" 

As~he~Jrose  he  caught  'Marcus's  wrist  in  both  his  hands.  He  did 
not  strike,  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  His  only  idea 
was  to  batter  the  life  out  of  the  man  before  him,  to  crush  and  anni 
hilate  him  upon  the  instant.  Gripping  his  enemy  in  his  enormous 
hands,  hard  and  knotted,  and  covered  with  a  stiff  fell  of  yellow  hair 
— the  hands  of  the  old-time  car-boy — he  swung  him  wide,  as  a 
hammer-thrower  swings  his  hammer.  Marcus's  feet  flipped  from 
the  ground,  he  spun  through  the  air  about  McTeague  as  helpless 
as  a  bundle  of  clothes.  All  at  once  there  was  a  sharp  snap,  almost 
like  the  report  of  a  small  pistol.  Then  Marcus  rolled  over  and  over 
upon  the  ground  as  McTeague  released  his  grip;  his  arm,  the  one 
the  dentist  had  seized,  bending  suddenly,  as  though  a  third  joint 
had  formed  between  wrist  and  elbow.  _The~-arm  was  broken. 

But  by  this  time  every  one  was  crying  out  at  once.  Heise  and 
Ryer  ran  in  between  the  two  men.  Selina  turned  her  head  away. 
Trina  was  wringing  her  hands  and  crying  in  an  agony  of  dread: 

"Oh,  stop  them,  stop  them !  Don't  let  them  fight.  Oh,  it's  too 
awful." 

"Here,  here,  Doc,  quit.  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  cried 
Heise,  clinging  to  the  dentist.  "That's  enough  now.  Listen  to  me, 
will  you?" 

"Oh,  Mac,  Mac,"  cried  Trina,  running  to  her  husband.  "Mac, 
dear,  listen ;  it's  me,  it's  Trina,  look  at  me,  you — " 

"Get  hold  of  his  other  arm,  will  you,  Ryer?"  panted  Heise. 
"Quick!" 

"Mac,  Mac,"  cried  Trina,  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"For  God's  sake,  hold  up,  Doc,  will  you?"  shouted  the  harness- 
maker.  "You  don't  want  to  kill  him,  do  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Ryer  and  Heise's  lame  wife  were  filling  the  air  with  their 


1 50  McTeague 

outcries.  Selina  was  giggling  with  hysteria.  Marcus,  terrified,  but 
too  brave  to  run,  had  picked  up  a  jagged  stone  with  his  left  hand 
and  stood  on  the  defensive.  His  swollen  right  arm,  from  which  the 
shirt  sleeve  had  been  torn,  dangled  at  his  side,  the  back  of  the  hand 
twisted  where  the  palm  should  have  been.  The  shirt  itself  was  a 
mass  of  grass  stains  and  was  spotted  with  the  dentist's  blood. 

But  McTeague,  in  the  centre  of  the  group  that  struggled  to  hold 
him,  was  nigh  to  madness.  The  side  of  his  face,  his  neck,  and  all 
the  shoulder  and  breast  of  his  shirt  were  covered  with  blood.  He 
had  ceased  to  cry  out,  but  kept  muttering  between  his  gripped  jaws, 
as  he  labored  to  tear  himself  free  of  the  retaining  hands : 

"Ah,  I'll  kill  him!  Ah,  I'll  kill  him!  I'll  kill  him!  Damn  you, 
Heise,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  trying  to  strike  the  harness-maker, 
"let  go  of  me,  will  you !" 

Little  by  little  they  pacified  him,  or  rather  (for  he  paid  but  lit 
tle  attention  to  what  was  said  to  him)  his  bestial  fury  lapsed  by  de 
grees.  He  turned  away  and  let  fall  his  arms,  drawing  long  breaths, 
and  looking  stupidly  about  him,  now  searching  helplessly  upon  the 
ground,  now  gazing  vaguely  into  the  circle  of  faces  about  him. 
His  ear  bled  as  though  it  would  never  stop. 

"Say,  Doctor/'  asked  Heise,  "what's  the  best  thing  to  do?" 

"Huh?"  answered  McTeague.  "What— what  do  you  mean? 
What  is  it?" 

"What'll  we  do  to  stop  this  bleeding  here?" 

McTeague  did  not  answer,  but  looked  intently  at  the  blood 
stained  bosom  of  his  shirt. 

"Mac,"  cried  Trina,  her  face  close  to  his,  "tell  us  something — 
the  best  thing  we  can  do  to  stop  your  ear  bleeding." 

"Collodium,"  said  the  dentist. 

"But  we  can't  get  to  that  right  away ;  we — " 

"There's  some  ice  in  our  lunch  basket/'  broke  in  Heise.  "We 
brought  it  for  the  beer ;  and  take  the  napkins  and  make  a  bandage." 

"Ice,"  muttered  the  dentist,  "sure,  ice,  that's  the  word." 

Mrs.  Heise  and  the  Ryers  were  looking  after  Marcus's  broken 
arm.  Selina  sat  on  the  slope  of  the  grass,  gasping  and  sobbing. 
Trina  tore  the  napkins  into  strips,  and,  crushing  some  of  the  ice, 
made  a  bandage  for  her  husband's  head. 

The  party  resolved  itself  into  two  groups;  the  Ryers  and  Mrs. 
Heise  bending  over  Marcus,  while  the  harness-maker  and  Trina 
came  and  went  about  McTeague,  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  shirt,  a 
mere  blur  of  red  and  white,  detaching  itself  violently  from  the  back- 


McTeague  151 

ground  of  pale-green  grass.  Between  the  two  groups  was  the  torn 
and  trampled  bit  of  turf,  the  wrestling  ring;  the  picnic  baskets,  to 
gether  with  empty  beer  bottles,  broken  egg-shells,  and  discarded 
sardine  tins,  were  scattered  here  and  there.  In  the  middle  of  the 
improvised  wrestling  ring  the  sleeve  of  Marcus's  shirt  fluttered 
occasionally  in  the  sea  breeze. 

Nobody  was  paying  any  attention  to  Selina.  All  at  once  she 
began  to  giggle  hysterically  again,  then  cried  out  with  a  peal  of 
laughter : 

"Oh,  what  a  way  for  our  picnic  to  end!" 


XII 

"Now,  then,  Maria,"  said  Zerkow,  his  cracked,  strained  voice 
just  rising  above  a  whisper,  hitching  his  chair  closer  to  the  table, 
"now,  then,  my  girl,  let's  have  it  all  over  again.  Tell  us  about  the 
gold  plate — the  service.  Begin  with,  'There  were  over  a  hundred 
pieces  and  every  one  of  them  gold.' ' 

"I  don'  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Zerkow,"  answered 
Maria.     "There  never  was  no  gold  plate,  no  gold  service.     I  guess    / 
you  must  have  dreamed  it." 

Maria  and  the  red-headed  Polish  Jew  had  been  married  about 
a  month  after  the  McTeagues'  picnic  which  had  ended  in  such 
lamentable  fashion.  Zerkow  had  taken  Maria  home  to  his  wretched 
hovel  in  the  alley  back  of  the  flat*  and  the  flat  had  been  obliged  to 
get  another  maid  of  all  work.  Time  passed,  a  month,  six  months,  a 
whole  year  went  by.  At  length  Maria  gave  birth  to  a  child,  a 
wretched,  sickly  child,  "with  not  'even  strength  enough  nor  wits 
enough  to  cry.  At  the  time  of  its  birth  Maria  was  out  of  her  mind, 
and  continued  in  a  state  of  dementia  for  nearly  ten  days.  She  re 
covered  just  in  time  to  make  the  arrangements  for  the  baby's  burial. 
Neither  Zerkow  nor  Maria  was  much  affected  by  either  the  birth 
or  the  death  of  this  little  child.  Zerkow  had  welcomed  it  with  pro 
nounced  disfavor,  since  it  had  a  mouth  to  be  fed  and  wants  to  be 
provided  for.  Maria  was  out  of  her  head  so  much  of  the  time 
that  she  could  scarcely  remember  how  it  looked  when  alive.  The 
child  was  a  mere  incident  in  their  lives,  a  thing  that  had  come  un- 
desired  and  had  gone  unregretted.  It  had  not  even  a  name;  a 
strange,  hybrid  little  being,  come  and  gone  within  a  fortnight's  time, 


McTeague 

yet  combining  in  its  puny  little  body  the  blood  ofjhejjebrew,  the 
Pole,  and  the  Spaniard. 

But  the  birtE  of  this  child  had  peculiar  consequences.  Maria 
came  out  of  her  dementia,  and  in  a  few  days  the  household  settled 
itself  again  to  its  sordid  regime  and  Maria  went  about  her  duties  as 
usual.  Then  one  evening,  about  a  week  after  the  child's  burial, 
Zerkow  had  asked  Maria  to  tell  him  the  story  of  the  famous  service 
of  gold  plate  for  the  hundredth  time. 

Zerkow  had  come  to  believe  in  this  story  infallibly.  He  was 
immovably  persuaded  that  at  one  time  Maria  or  Maria's  people  had 
possessed  these  hundred  golden  dishes.  In  his  perverted  mind  the 
hallucination  had  developed  still  further.  Not  only  had  that  service 
of  gold  plate  once  existed,  but  it  existed  now,  entire,  intact;  not  a 
single  burnished  golden  piece  of  it  was  missing.  It  was  somewhere, 
somebody  had  it,  locked  away  in  that  leather  trunk  with  its  quilted 
lining  and  round  brass  locks.  It  was  to  be  searched  for  and  secured, 
to  be  fought  for,  to  be  gained  at  all  hazards.  Maria  must  know 
where  it  was;  by  dint  of  questioning,  Zerkow  would  surely  get  the 
information  from  her.  Some  day,  if  only  he  was  persistent,  he  would 
hit  upon  the  right  combination  of  questions,  the  right  suggestion  that 
would  disentangle  Maria's  confused  recollections.  Maria  would 
tell  him  where  the  thing  was  kept,  was  concealed,  was  buried,  and  he 
would  go  to  that  place  and  secure  it,  and  all  that  wonderful  gold 
would  be  his  forever  and  forever.  This  service  of  plate  had  come  to 
be  Zerkow's  mania. 

On  this  particular  evening,  about  a  week  after  the  child's  burial, 
in  the  wretched  back  room  of  the  junk  shop,  Zerkow  had  made 
Maria  sit  down  to  the  table  opposite  him — the  whiskey  bottle  and 
the  red  glass  tumbler  with  its  broken  base  between  them — and 
had  said: 

"Now,  then,  Maria,  tell  us  that  story  of  the  gold  dishes  again." 

Maria  stared  at  him,  an  expression  of  perplexity  coming  into  her 
face. 

"What  gold  dishes?"  said  she. 

"The  ones  your  people  used  to  own  in  Central  America.  Come 
on,  Maria,  begin,  begin."  The  Jew  craned  himself  forward,  his 
lean  fingers  clawing  eagerly  at  his  lips. 

"What  gold  plate?"  said  Marja,  frowning  at  him  as  she  drank 
her  whiskey.  "What  gold  plate  ?  /  don'  know  what  you're  talking 
about,  Zerkow." 

Zerkow  sat  back  in  his  chair,  staring  at  her. 


McTeague  1 53 

"Why,  your  people's  gold  dishes,  what  they  used  to  eat  off  of. 
You've  told  me  about  it  a  hundred  times." 

"You're  crazy,  Zerkow,"  said  Maria.  "Push  the  bottle  here, 
will  you?" 

"Come,  now,"  insisted  Zerkow,  sweating  with  desire,  "come, 
now,  my  girl,  don't  be  a  fool ;  let's  have  it,  let's  have  it.  Begin  now, 
'There  were  more'n  a  hundred  pieces,  and  every  one  of  'em  gold.' 
Oh,  you  know ;  come  on,  come  on." 

"I  don't  remember  nothing  of  the  kind,"  protested  Maria,  reach 
ing  for  the  bottle.  Zerkow  snatched  it  from  her. 

"You  fool !"  he  wheezed,  trying  to  raise  his  broken  voice  to  a 
shout.  "You  fool !  Don't  you  dare  try  an'  cheat  me,  or  I'll  do  for 
you.  You  know  about  the  gold  plate,  and  you  know  where  it  is." 
Suddenly  he  pitched  his  voice  at  the  prolonged  rasping  shout  with 
which  he  made  his  street  cry.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  his  long,  pre 
hensile  fingers  curled  into  fists.  He  was  menacing,  terrible  in  his 
rage.  He  leaned  over  Maria,  his  fists  in  her  face. 

"I  believe  you've  got  it!"  he  yelled.  "I  believe  you've  got  it, 
an'  are  hiding  it  from  me.  Where  is  it,  where  is  it?  Is  it  here?" 
he  rolled  his  eyes  wildly  about  the  room.  "Hey?  hey?"  he  went 
on,  shaking  Maria  by  the  shoulders.  "Where  is  it?  Is  it  here? 
Tell  me  where  it  is.  Tell  me,  or  I'll  do  for  you !" 

"It  ain't  here,"  cried  Maria,  wrenching  from  him.  "It  ain't 
anywhere.  What  gold  plate?  What  are  you  talking  about?  I 
don't  remember  nothing  about  no  gold  plate  at  all." 

No,  Maria  did  not  remember.  The  trouble  and  turmoil  of  her 
mind  consequent  upon  the  birth  of  her  child  seemed  to  have  re-  / 
adjusted  her  disordered  ideas  upon  this  point.  Her  mania  had  come  ' 
to  a  crisis,  which  in  subsiding  had  cleared  her  brain  of  its  one  illu 
sion.  She  did  not  remember.  Or  it  was  possible  that  the  gold  plate 
she  had  once  remembered  had  had  some  foundation  in  fact,  that 
her  recital  of  its  splendors  had  been  truth,  sound  and  sane.  It  was 
possible  that  now  her  forgetfulness  of  it  was  some  form  of  brain 
trouble,  a  relic  of  the  dementia  of  childbirth.  At  all  events,  Maria 
did  not  remember;  the  idea  of  the  gold  plate  had  passed  entirely 
out  of  her  mind,  and  it  was  now  Zerkow  who  labored  under  its 
hallucination.  It  was  now  Zerkow,  the  raker  of  the  city's  muck 
heap,  the  searcher  after  gold,  thaFsaw  that  wonderful  service  in  the 
eye  of  his  perverted  mind.  It  was  he  who  could  now  describe  it  in 
a  language" almrerr^oTjlfent.  Maria  had  been  content  merely  to  re 
member  it ;  but  Zerkow's  avarice  goaded  him  to  a  belief  that  it  was 


McTeague 

still  in  existence,  hid  somewhere,  perhaps  in  that  very  house,  stowed 
away  there  by  Maria.  For  it  stood  to  reason,  didn't  it,  that  Maria 
could  not  have  described  it  with  such  wonderful  accuracy  and  such 
careful  detail  unless  she  had  seen  it  recently — the  day  before,  per 
haps,  or  that  very  day,  or  that  very  hour,  that  very  hour? 

"Look  out  for  yourself,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  to  his  wife. 
"Look  out  for  yourself,  my  girl.  I'll  hunt  for  it,  and  hunt  for  it, 
and  hunt  for  it,  and  some  day  I'll  find  it — /  will,  you'll  see — I'll 
find  it,  I'll  find  it ;  and  if  I  don't,  I'll  find  a  way  that'll  make  you  tell 
me  where  it  is.  I'll  make  you  speak — believe  me,  I  will,  I  will,  my 
girl — trust  me  for  that." 

And  at  night  Maria  would  sometimes  wake  to  find  Zerkow  gone 
from  the  bed,  and  would  see  him  burrowing  into  some  corner  by  the 
light  of  his  dark-lantern  and  would  hear  him  mumbling  to  himself  : 
"There  were  more'n  a  hundred  pieces,  and  every  one  of  'em  gold — 
when  the  leather  trunk  was  opened  it  fair  dazzled  your  eyes — why, 
just  that  punch-bowl  was  worth  a  fortune,  I  guess;  solid,  solid, 
heavy,  rich,  pure  gold,  nothun  but  gold,  gold,  heaps  and  heaps  of  it 
— what  a  glory!  I'll  find  it  yet,  I'll  find  it.  It's  here  somewheres, 
hid  somewheres  in  this  house." 

At  length  his  continued  ill  success  began  to  exasperate  him.  One 
day  he  took  his  whip  from  his  junk  wagon  and  thrashed  Maria  with 
it,  gasping  the  while,  "Where  is  it,  you  beast?  Where  is  it?  Tell 
me  where  it  is;  I'll  make  you  speak." 

"I  don'  know,  I  don'  know,"  cried  Maria,  dodging  his  blows. 
"I'd  tell  you,  Zerkow,  if  I  knew ;  but  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it. 
How  can  I  tell  you  if  I  don'  know  ?" 

Then  one  evening  matters  reached  a  crisis.  Marcus  Schouler 
was  in  his  room,  the  room  in  the  flat  just  over  McTeague's  "Par 
lors"  which  he  had  always  occupied.  It  was  between  eleven  and 
twelve  o'clock.  The  vast  house  was  quiet;  Polk  Street  outside  was 
very  still,  except  for  the  occasional  whir  and  trundle  of  a  passing 
cable  car  and  the  persistent  calling  of  ducks  and  geese  in  the  de 
serted  market  directly  opposite.  Marcus  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
perspiring  and  swearing  with  exertion  as  he  tried  to  get  all  his 
belongings  into  an  absurdly  inadequate  trunk.  The  room  was  in 
great  confusion.  It  looked  as  though  Marcus  was  about  to  move. 
He  stood  in  front  of  his  trunk,  his  precious  silk  hat  in  its  hat-box  in 
his  hand.  He  was  raging  at  the  perverseness  of  a  pair  of  boots  that 
refused  to  fit  in  his  trunk,  no  matter  how  he  arranged  them. 

"I've  tried  you  so,  and  I've  tried  you  so"  he  exclaimed  fiercely 


McTeague  155 

between  his  teeth,  "and  you  won't  go."  He  began  to  swear  hor 
ribly,  grabbing  at  the  boots  with  his  free  hand.  "Pretty  soon  I 
won't  take  you  at  all ;  I  won't,  for  a  fact." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  rush  of  feet  upon  the  back  stairs  and 
a  clamorous  pounding  upon  his  door.  He  opened  it  to  let 
in  Maria  Macapa,  her  hair  disheveled  and  her  eyes  starting  with 
terror. 

"Oh,  Mister  Schouler,"  she  gasped,  "lock  the  door  quick.  Don't 
let  him  get  me.  He's  got  a  knife,  and  he  says  sure  he's  going  to  do 
for  me,  if  I  don't  tell  him  where  it  is." 

"Who  has?  What  has?  Where  is  what?"  shouted  Marcus, 
flaming  with  excitement  upon  the  instant.  He  opened  the  door 
and  peered  down  the  dark  hall,  both  fists  clinched,  ready  to  fight — 
he  did  not  know  whom,  and  he  did  not  know  why. 

"It's  Zerkow,"  wailed  Maria,  pulling  him  back  into  the  room 
and  bolting  the  door,  "and  he's  got  a  knife  as  long  as  that.  Oh, 
my  Lord,  here  he  comes  now !  Ain't  that  him  ?  Listen." 

Zerkow  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  calling  for  Maria. 

"Don't  you  let  him  get  me,  will  you,  Mister  Schouler?"  gasped 
Maria. 

"I'll  break  him  in  two,"  shouted  Marcus,  livid  with  rage. 
"Think  I'm  afraid  of  his  knife?" 

"I  know  where  you  are,"  cried  Zerkow,  on  the  landing  outside. 
"You're  in  Schouler's  room.  What  are  you  doing  in  Schouler's 
room  at  this  time  of  night?  Come  outa  there;  you  oughta  be 
ashamed.  I'll  do  for  you  yet,  my  girl.  Come  outa  there  once,  an' 
see  if  I  don't." 

"I'll  do  for  you  myself,  you  jlirty_  Jew,"  shouted  Marcus,  un 
bolting  the  door  and  running  out  into  theTiall. 

"I  want  my  wife,"  exclaimed  the  Jew,  backing  down  the  stairs. 
"What's  she  mean  by  running  away  from  me  and  going  into  your 
room  ?" 

"Look  out,  he's  got  a  knife!"  cried  Maria  through  the  crack  of 
the  door. 

"Ah,  there  you  are.  Come  outa  that,  and  come  back  home,"  ex 
claimed  Zerkow. 

"Get  outa  here  yourself,"  cried  Marcus,  advancing  on  him 
angrily,  "Get  outa  here." 

"Maria's  gota  come  too." 

"Get  outa  here,"  vociferated  Marcus,  "an'  put  up  that  knife.  / 
see  it;  you  needn't  try  an'  hide  it  behind  your  leg.  Give  it  to  me, 


McTeague 

anyhow,"  he  shouted  suddenly,  and  before  Zerkow  was  aware, 
Marcus  had  wrenched  it  away.  "Now,  get  outa  here." 

Zerkow  backed  away,  peering  and  peeping  over  Marcus's 
shoulder. 

"I  want  Maria." 

"Get  outa  here.  Get  along  out,  or  I'll  put  you  out."  The  street 
door  closed.  The  Jew  was  gone. 

"Huh!"  snorted  Marcus,  swelling  with  arrogance.  "Huh! 
Think  I'm  afraid  of  his  knife?  I  ain't  afraid  of  anybody/'  he 
shouted  pointedly,  for  McTeague  and  his  wife,  roused  by  the  clamor, 
were  peering  over  the  banisters  from  the  landing  above.  "Not  of 
anybody,"  repeated  Marcus. 

Maria  came  out  into  the  hall. 

"Is  he  gone?    Is  he  sure  gone?" 

"What  was  the  trouble?"  inquired  Marcus  suddenly. 

"I  woke  up  about  an  hour  ago,"  Maria  explained,  "and  Zerkow 
wasn't  in  bed;  maybe  he  hadn't  come  to  bed  at  all.  He  was  down 
on  his  knees  by  the  sink,  and  he'd  pried  up  some  boards  off  the  floor 
and  was  digging  there.  He  had  his  dark-lantern.  He  was  digging 
with  that  knife,  I  guess,  and  all  the  time  he  kept  mumbling  to  him 
self,  '.More'n  a  hundred  pieces,  an'  every  one  of  'em  gold,  more'n  a 
hundred  pieces,  an'  every  one  of  'em  gold.'  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he 
caught  sight  of  me.  I  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  he  jumped  up  and 
came  at  me  with  his  knife,  an'  he  says,  'Where  is  it?  Where  is  it? 
I  know  you  got  it  hid  somewheres.  Where  is  it?  Tell  me  or  I'll 
knife  you.'  I  kind  of  fooled  him  and  kept  him  off  till  I  got  my 
wrapper  on,  an'  then  I  run  out.  I  didn't  dare  stay." 

"Well,  what  did  you  tell  him  about  your  gold  dishes  for  in  the 
first  place?"  cried  Marcus. 

"I  never  told  him,"  protested  Maria,  with  the  greatest  energy. 
"I  never  told  him ;  I  never  heard  of  any  gold  dishes.  I  don'  know 
where  he  got  the  idea ;  he  must  be  crazy." 

By  this  time  Trina  and  McTeague,  Old  Grannis,  and  little  Miss 
Baker — all  the  lodgers  on  the  upper  floors  of  the  flat — had  gathered 
about  Maria.  Trina  and  the  dentist,  who  had  gone  to  bed,  were 
partially  dressed,  and  Trina's  enormous  mane  of  black  hair  was 
hanging  in  two  thick  braids  far  down  her  back.  But,  late  as  it  was, 
Old  Grannis  and  the  retired  dressmaker  had  still  been  up  and  about 
when  Maria  had  aroused  them. 

"Why,  Maria,"  said  Trina,  "you  always  used  to  tell  us  about 
your  gold  dishes.  You  said  your  folks  used  to  have  them." 


McTeague  157 

"Never,  never,  never!"  exclaimed  Maria  vehemently.  "You 
folks  must  all  be  crazy.  I  never  heard  of  any  gold  dishes." 

"Well,"  spoke  up  Miss  Baker,  "you're  a  queer  girl,  Maria; 
that's  all  I  can  say."  She  left  the  group  and  returned  to  her  room. 
Old  Grannis  watched  her  go  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  in  a 
few  moments  followed  her,  leaving  the  group  as  unnoticed  as  he 
had  joined  it.  By  degrees  the  flat  quieted  down  again.  Trina  and 
McTeague  returned  to  their  rooms. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  back  now,"  said  Maria.  "He's  all  right  now. 
I  ain't  afraid  of  him  so  long  as  he  ain't  got  his  knife." 

"Well,  say,"  Marcus  called  to  her  as  she  went  down  stairs,  "if 
he  gets  funny  again,  you  just  yell  out;  /'//  hear  you.  /  won't  let 
him  hurt  you." 

Marcus  went  into  his  room  again  and  resumed  his  wrangle  with 
the  refractory  boots.  His  eye  fell  on  Zerkow's  knife,  a  long,  keen- 
bladed  hunting-knife,  with  a  buckhorn  handle.  "I'll  take  you  along 
with  me,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "I'll  just  need  you  where  I'm 
going." 

Meanwhile,  old  Miss  Baker  was  making  tea  to  calm  her  nerves 
after  the  excitement  of  Maria's  incursion.  This  evening  she  went  so 
far  as  to  make  tea  for  two,  laying  an  extra  place  on  the  other  side 
of  her  little  tea-table,  setting  out  a  cup  and  saucer  and  one  of  the 
Gorham  silver  spoons.  Close  upon  the  other  side  of  the  partition 
Old  Grannis  bound  uncut  numbers  of  the  "Nation." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Mac?"  said  Trina,  when  the 
couple  had  returned  to  their  rooms.  "I  think  Marcus  is  going 
away." 

"What?  What?"  muttered  the  dentist,  very  sleepy  and  stupid, 
"what  you  saying?  What's  that  about  Marcus?" 

"I  believe  Marcus  has  been  packing  up,  the  last  two  or  three 
days.  I  wonder  if  he's  going  away." 

"Who's  going  away?"  said  McTeague,  blinking  at  her. 

"Oh,  go  to  bed,"  said  Trina,  pushing  him  good-naturedly.  "Mac, 
you're  the  stupidest  man  I  ever  knew." 

But  it  was  true.  Marcus  was  going  away.  Trina  received  a 
letter  the  next  morning  from  her  mother.  The  carpet-cleaning 
and  upholstery  business  in  which  Mr.  Sieppe  had  involved  himself 
was  going  from  bad  to  worse.  Mr.  Sieppe  had  even  been  obliged  to 
put  a  mortgage  upon  their  house.  Mrs.  Sieppe  didn't  know  what 
was  to  become  of  them  all.  Her  husband  had  even  begun  to  talk  of 
emigrating  to  New  Zealand.  Meanwhile,  she  informed  Trina  that 


158  McTeague 

Mr.  Sieppe  had  finally  come  across  a  man  with  whom  Marcus  could 
"go  in  with  on  a  ranch,"  a  cattle  ranch  in  the  southeastern  portion 
of  the  State.  Her  ideas  were  vague  upon  the  subject,  but  she  knew 
that  Marcus  was  wildly  enthusiastic  at  the  prospect,  and  was  ex 
pected  down  before  the  end  of  the  month.  In  the  meantime,  could 
Trina  send  them  fifty  dollars? 

"Marcus  is  going  away,  after  all,  Mac,"  said  Trina  to  her  hus 
band  that  day  as  he  came  out  of  his  "Parlors"  and  sat  dowrn  to  the 
lunch  of  sausages,  mashed  potatoes,  and  chocolate  in  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Huh?"  said  the  dentist,  a  little  confused.  "Who's  going  away? 
Schouler  going  away?  Why's  Schouler  going  away?" 

Trina  explained.  "Oh!"  growled  McTeague,  behind  his  thick 
mustache,  "he  can  go  far  before  I'll  stop  him." 

"And,  say,  Mac,"  continued  Trina,  pouring  the  chocolate,  "what 
do  you  think  ?  Mamma  wants  me — wants  us  to  send  her  fifty  dollars. 
She  says  they're  hard  up.;' 

"Well,"  said  the  dentist,  after  a  moment,  "well,  I  guess  we  can 
send  it,  can't  we?" 

"Oh,  that's  easy  to  say,"  complained  Trina,  her  little  chin  in  the 
air,  her  small  pale  lips  pursed.  "I  wonder  if  mamma  thinks  we're 
millionaires?" 

"Trina,  you're  getting  to  be  regular  stingy,"  muttered  Mc 
Teague.  "You're  getting  worse  and  worse  every  day." 

"But  fifty  dollars  is  fifty  dollars,  Mac.  Just  think  how  long  it 
takes  you  to  earn  fifty  dollars.  Fifty  dollars!  That's  two  months 
of  our  interest." 

"Well,"  said  McTeague,  easily,  his  mouth  full  of  mashed  potato, 
"you  got  a  lot  saved  up." 

Upon  every  reference  to  that  little  hoard  in  the  brass  match-safe 
and  chamois-skin  bag  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk,  Trina  bridled  on 
the  instant. 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  Mac.  'A  lot  of  money/  What  do  you 
call  a  lot  of  money  ?  I  don't  believe  I've  got  fifty  dollars  saved." 

"Hoh!"  exclaimed  McTeague.  "Hoh!  I  guess  you  got  nearer 
a  hundred  an"  fifty.  That's  what  I  guess  you  got." 

"I've  not,  I've  not"  declared  Trina,  "and  you  know  I've  not. 
I  wish  mamma  hadn't  asked  me  "for  any  money.  Why  can't  she 
be  a  little  more  economical?  7  manage  all  right.  No,  no,  I  can't 
possibly  afford  to  send  her  fifty." 

"Oh,  pshaw !    What  will  you  do,  then  ?"  grumbled  her  husband. 


McTeague  159 

"I'll  send  her  twenty-five  this  month,  and  tell  her  I'll  send  the 
rest  as  soon  as  I  can  afford  it." 

"Trina,  you're  a  regular  little  miser,"  said  McTeague. 

"I  don't  care,"  answered  Trina,  beginning  to  laugh.  "I  guess  I 
am,  but  I  can't  help  it,  and  it's  a  good  fault." 

Trina  put  off  sending  this  money  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  her 
mother  made  no  mention  of  it  in  her  next  letter.  "Oh,  I  guess  if 
she  wants  it  so  bad,"  said  Trina,  "she'll  speak  about  it  again."  So 
she  again  postponed  the  sending  of  it.  Day  by  day  she  put  it  off. 
When  her  mother  asked  her  for  it  a  second  time,  it  seemed  harder 
than  ever  for  Trina  to  part  with  even  half  the  sum  requested.  She 
answered  her  mother,  telling  her  that  they  were  very  hard  up 
themselves  for  that  month,  but  that  she  would  send  down  the 
amount  in  a  few  weeks. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  Mac,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "you 
send  half  and  I'll  send  half;  we'll  send  twenty-five  dollars  alto 
gether.  Twelve  and  a  half  apiece.  That's  an  idea.  How  will 
that  do?" 

"Sure,  sure,"  McTeague  had  answered,  giving  her  the  money. 
Trina  sent  McTeague's  twelve  dollars,  but  never  sent  the  twelve 
that  was  to  be  her  share.  One  day  the  dentist  happened  to  ask  her 
about  it. 

"You  sent  that  twenty-five  to  your  mother,  didn't  you  ?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  long  ago,"  answered  Trina,  without  thinking. 

In  fact,  Trina  never  allowed  herself  to  think  very  much  of  this 
affair.  And,  in  fact,  another  matter  soon  came  to  engross  her 
attention.  \/J  [  j$ \7| 

One  Sunday  evening  Trina  and  her  husband  were  in  their  sit 
ting-room  together.  It  was  dark,  but  the  lamp  had  not  been  lighted. 
McTeague  had  brought  up  some  bottles  of  beer  from  the  "Wein 
Stube"  on  the  ground  floor,  where  the  branch  post-office  used  to  be. 
But  they  had  not  opened  the  beer.  It  was  a  warm  evening  in  summer. ; 
Trina  was  sitting  on  McTeague's  lap  in  the  bay  window,  and  had  ' 
looped  back  the  Nottingham  curtains  so  the  two  could  look  out  into 
the  darkened  street  and  watch  the  moon  coming  up  over  the  glass 
roof  of  the  huge  public  baths.  On  occasions  they  sat  like  this  for 
an  hour  or  so,  "philandering,"  Trina  cuddling  herself  down  upon 
McTeague's  enormous  body,  rubbing  her  cheek  against  the  grain 
of  his  unshaven  chin,  kissing  the  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
or  putting  her  fingers  into  his  ears  and  eyes.  At  times,  a  brusque 
access  of  passion  would  seize  upon  her,  and,  with  a  nervous  little 


!6o  McTeague 

sigh,  she  would  clasp  his  thick  red  neck  in  both  her  small  arms  and 
whisper  in  his  ear: 

"Do  you  love  me,  Mac,  dear?  love  me  big,  big?  Sure,  do  you 
love  me  as  much  as  you  did  when  we  were  married  ?" 

Puzzled,  McTeague  would  answer:  "Well,  you  know  it,  don't 
you,  Trina?" 

"But  I  want  you  to  say  so ;  say  so  always  and  always." 

"Well,  I  do,  of  course  I  do." 

"Say  it,  then." 

"Well,  then,  I  love  you." 

"But  you  don't  say  it  of  your  own  accord." 

"Well,  what— what— what— I  don't  understand,"  stammered  the 
dentist,  bewildered. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Confused  and  embarrassed, 
as  if  thev  were  not  married,  Trina  scrambled  off  McTeague's  lap, 
hastening  to  light  the  lamp,  whispering,  "Put  on  your  coat,  Mac, 
and  smooth  your  hair,"  and  making  gestures  for  him  to  put  the  beer 
bottles  out  of  sight.  She  opened  the  door  and  uttered  an  ex 
clamation. 

"Why,  Cousin  Mark!"  she  said.  McTeague  glared  at  him, 
struck  speechless,  confused  beyond  expression.  Marcus  Schouler, 
perfectly  at  his  ease,  stood  in  the  doorway,  smiling  with  great  affa 
bility. 

"Say,"  he  remarked,  "can  I  come  in?" 

Taken  all  aback,  Trina  could  only  answer: 

"Why — I  suppose  so.    Yes,  of  course — come  in." 

"Yes,  yes,  come  in,"  exclaimed  the  dentist,  suddenly,  speaking 
without  thought.  "Have  some  beer?"  he  added,  struck  with  an 
idea. 

"No,  thanks,  Doctor,"  said  Marcus,  pleasantly. 

McTeague  and  Trina  were  puzzled.  What  could  it  all  mean? 
Did  Marcus  want  fo  become  reconciled  to  his  enemy?  "/  know," 
Trina  said  to  herself.  "He's  going  away,  and  he  wants  to  borrow 
some  money.  He  won't  get  a  penny,  not  a  penny."  She  set  her 
teeth  together  hard. 

"Well,"  said  Marcus,  "how's  business,  Doctor?" 

"Oh,"  said  McTeague,  uneasily,  "oh,  I  don'  know.  I  guess — 
I  guess,"  he  broke  off  in  helpleSs  embarrassment.  They  had  all 
sat  down  by  now.  Marcus  continued,  holding  his  hat  and  his  cane 
— the  black  wand  of  ebony  with  the  gold  top  presented  to  him  by  the 
"Improvement  Club." 


McTeague  161 

"Ah!"  said  he,  wagging  his  head  and  looking  about  the  sitting- 
room,  "you  people  have  got  the  best  fixed  rooms  in  the  whole  flat. 
Yes,  sir;  you  have,  for  a  fact."  He  glanced  from  the  lithograph 
framed  in  gilt  and  red  plush — the  two  little  girls  at  their  prayers— 
to  the  "I'm  Grandpa"  and  "I'm  Grandma"  pictures,  noted  the  clean 
white  matting  and  the  gay  worsted  tidies  over  the  chair  backs,  and 
appeared  to  contemplate  in  ecstasy  the  framed  photograph  of  Mc 
Teague  and  Trina  in  their  wedding  finery. 

"Well,  you  two  are  pretty  happy  together,  ain't  you?"  said  he, 
smiling  good-humoredly. 

"Oh,  we  don't  complain,"  answered  Trina. 

"Plenty  of  money,  lots  to  do,  everything  fine,  hey?" 

"We've  got  lots  to  do,"  returned  Trina,  thinking  to  head  him 
off,  "but  we've  not  got  lots  of  money." 

But  evidently  Marcus  wanted  no  money. 

"Well,  Cousin  Trina,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  knee,  "I'm  going 
away." 

"Yes,  mamma  wrote  me;  you're  going  on  a  ranch." 

"I'm  going  in  ranching  with  an  English  duck,"  corrected  Mar 
cus.  "Mr.  Sieppe  has  fixed  things.  We'll  see  if  we  can't  raise 
some  cattle.  I  know  a  lot  about  horses,  and  he's  ranched  some  be 
fore — this  English  duck.  And  then  I'm  going  to  keep  my  eye  open 
for  a  political  chance  down  there.  I  got  some  introductions  from 
the  President  of  the  Improvement  Club.  I'll  work  things  somehow, 
oh,  sure." 

"How  long  you  going  to  be  gone  ?"  asked  Trina. 

Marcus  stared. 

"Why,  I  ain't  ever  coming  back,"  he  vociferated.  "I'm  going 
to-morrow,  and  I'm  going  for  good.  I  come  to  say  good-by." 

Marcus  stayed  for  upward  of  an  hour  that  evening.  He  talked 
on  easily  and  agreeably,  addressing  himself  as  much  to  McTeague 
as  to  Trina.  At  last  he  rose. 

"Well,  good-by,  Doc." 

"Good-by,  Marcus,"  returned  McTeague.  The  two  shook 
hands. 

"Guess  we  won't  ever  see  each  other  again,"  continued  Marcus. 
"But  good  luck  to  you,  Doc.  Hope  some  day  you'll  have  the  pa 
tients  standing  in  line  on  the  stairs." 

"Huh !  I  guess  so,  I  guess  so,"  said  the  dentist. 

"Good-by,  Cousin  Trina." 

"Good-by,  Marcus,"  answered  Trina.    "You  be  sure  to  remem- 


1 62  McTeague 

ber  me  to  mamma,  and  papa,  and  everybody.  I'm  going  to  make 
two  great  big  sets  of  Noah's  ark  animals  for  the  twins  on  their  next 
birthday;  August  is  too  old  for  toys.  But  you  tell  the  twins  that 
I'll  make  them  some  great  big  animals.  Good-by,  success  to  you, 
Marcus." 

"Good-by,  good-by.    Good  luck  to  you  both." 

"Good-by,  Cousin  Mark." 

"Good-by,  Marcus." 

He  was  gone. 


XIII 

ONE  morning  about  a  week  after  Marcus  had  left  for  the  south 
ern  part  of  the  State,  McTeague  found  an  oblong  letter  thrust 
through  the  letter-drop  of  the  door  of  his  "Parlors."  The  address 
was  typewritten.  He  opened  it.  The  letter  had  been  sent  from  the 
City  Hall  and  was  stamped  in  one  corner  with  the  seal  of  the  State 
of  California,  very  official;  the  form  and  file  numbers  super 
scribed. 

McTeague  had  been  making  fillings  when  this  letter  arrived.  He 
was  in  his  "Parlors,"  pottering  over  his  movable  rack  underneath 
the  bird  cage  in  the  bay  window.  He  was  making  "blocks"  to  be 
used  in  large  proximal  cavities  and  "cylinders"  for  commencing 
fillings.  He  heard  the  postman's  step  in  the  hall  and  saw  the  en 
velopes  begin  to  shuttle  themselves  through  the  slit  of  his  letter-drop. 
Then  came  the  fat  oblong  envelope,  with  its  official  seal,  that 
dropped  flatwise  to  the  floor  with  a  sodden,  dull  impact. 

The  dentist  put  down  the  broach  and  scissors  and  gathered  up 
his  mail.  There  were  four  letters  altogether.  One  was  for  Trina, 
in  Selina's  "elegant"  handwriting;  another  was  an  advertisement 
of  a  new  kind  of  operating  chair  for  dentists ;  the  third  was  a  card 
from  a  milliner  on  the  next  block,  announcing  an  opening;  and  the 
fourth,  contained  in  the  fat  oblong  envelope,  was  a  printed  form 
with  blanks  left  for  names  and  dates,  and  addressed  to  McTeague, 
from  an  office  in  the  City  Hall.  McTeague  read  it  through  labori 
ously.  "I  don'  know,  I  don'  know,"  he  muttered,  looking  stupidly 
at  the  rifle  manufacturer's  calendar.  Then  he  heard  Trina,  from 
the  kitchen,  singing  as  she  made  a  clattering  noise  with  the  break 
fast  dishes.  "I  guess  I'll  ask  Trina  about  it,"  he  muttered. 

He  went  through  the  suite,  by  the  sitting-room,  where  the  sun 


McTeague  163 

was  pouring  in  through  the  looped  backed  Nottingham  curtains 
upon  the  clean  white  matting  and  the  varnished  surface  of  the 
melodeon,  passed  on  through  the  bedroom,  with  its  framed  litho 
graphs  of  round-cheeked  English  babies  and  alert  fox  terriers,  and 
carne  out  into  the  brick-paved  kitchen.  The  kitchen  was  clean  as  a 
new  whistle;  the  freshly  blackened  cook  stove  glowed  like  a  negro's 
hide ;  the  tins  and  porcelain-lined  stew-pans  might  have^been  oTsil- 
ver  and  of  ivory.  Trina  was  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  wiping  off, 
with  a  damp  sponge,  the  oilcloth  table-cover,  on  which  they  had 
breakfasted.  Never  had  she  looked  so  pretty.  Early  though  it 
was,  her  enormous  tiara  of  swarthy  hair  was  neatly  combed  and 
coiled,  not  a  pin  was  so  much  as  loose.  She  wore  a  blue  calico 
skirt  with  a  white  figure,  and  a  belt  of  imitation  alligator  skin 
clasped  around  her  small,  firmly-corseted  waist ;  her  shirt-waist  was 
of  pink  linen,  so  new  and  crisp  that  it  crackled  with  every  movement, 
while  around  the  collar,  tied  in  a  neat  knot,  was  one  of  McTeague's 
lawn  ties  which  she  had  appropriated.  Her  sleeves  were  carefully 
rolled  up  almost  to  her  shoulders,  and  nothing  could  have  been 
more  delicious  than  the  sight  of  her  small  round  arms,  white  as 
milk,  moving  back  and  forth  as  she  sponged  the  table-cover,  a  faint 
touch  of  pink  coming  and  going  at  the  elbows  as  they  bent  and 
straightened.  She  looked  up  quickly  as  her  husband  entered,  her 
narrow  eyes  alight,  her  adorable  little  chin  in  the  air;  her  lips 
rounded  and  opened  with  the  last  words  of  her  song,  so  that  one 
could  catch  a  glint  of  gold  in  the  fillings  of  her  upper  teeth. 

The  whole  scene — the  clean  kitchen  and  its  clean  brick  floor; 
the  smell  of  coffee  that  lingered  in  the  air;  Trina  herself,  fresh  as 
if  from  a  bath,  and  singing  at  her  work;  the  morning  sun,  striking 
obliquely  through  the  white  muslin  half-curtain  of  the  window  and 
spanning  the  little  kitchen  with  a  bridge  of  golden  mist — gave 
off,  as  it  were,  a  note  of  gayety  that  was  not  to  be  resisted. 
Through  the  opened  top  of  the  window  came  the  noises  of  Polk 
Street,  already  long  awake.  One  heard  the  chanting  of  street  cries, 
the  shrill  calling  of  children  on  their  way  to  school,  the  merry 
rattle  of  a  butcher's  cart,  the  brisk  noise  of  hammering,  or  the  occa 
sional  prolonged  roll  of  a  cable  car  trundling  heavily  past,  with  a 
vibrant  whirring  of  its  jostled  glass  and  the  joyous  clanging  of  its 
bells. 

"What  is  it,  Mac,  dear?"  said  Trina. 

McTeague  shut  the  door  behind  him  with  his  heel  and  handed 
her  the  letter.  Trina  read  it  through.  Then  suddenly  her  small 


164  McTeague 

hand  gripped  tightly  upon  the  sponge,  so  that  the  water  started  from 
it  and  dripped  in  a  little  pattering  deluge  upon  the  bricks. 

The  letter — or  rather  printed  notice — informed  McTeague  that 
he  had  never  received  a  diploma  from  a  dental  college,  and  that  in 
consequence  he  was  forbidden  to  practice  his  profession  any  longer. 
A  legal  extract  bearing  upon  the  case  was  attached  in  small  type. 

"Why,  what's  all  this?"  said  Trina,  calmly,  without  thought  as 
yet. 

"I  don'  know,  /  don'  know/'  answered  her  husband. 

"You  can't  practice  any  longer,"  continued  Trina — "  'is  here 
with  prohibited  and  enjoined  from  further  continuing — '  She  re 
read  the  extract,  her  forehead  lifting  and  puckering.  She  put  the 
sponge  carefully  away  in  its  wire  rack  over  the  sink,  and  drew 
up  a  chair  to  the  table,  spreading  out  the  notice  before  her.  "Sit 
down,"  she  said  to  McTeague.  "Draw  up  to  the  table  here,  Mac, 
and  let's  see  what  this  is." 

"I  got  it  this  morning,"  murmured  the  dentist.  "It  just  now 
came.  I  was  making  some  fillings — there,  in  the  'Parlors,'  in  the 
window — and  the  postman  shoved  it  through  the  door.  I  thought 
it  was  a  number  of  the  'American  System  of  Dentistry'  at  first,  and 
when  I'd  opened  it  and  looked  at  it  I  thought  I'd  better — " 

"Say,  'Mac,"  interrupted  Trina,  looking  up  from  the  notice, 
"didn't  you  ever  go  to  a  dental  college?" 

"Huh?    What?    What?"  exclaimed  McTeague. 

"How  did  you  learn  to  be  a  dentist  ?    Did  you  go  to  a  college  ?" 

"I  went  along  with  a  fellow  who  came  to  the  mine  once.  My 
mother  sent  me.  We  used  to  go  from  one  camp  to  another.  I 
sharpened  his  excavators  for  him,  and  put  up  his  notices  in  the 
towns — stuck  them  up  in  the  post-offices  and  on  the  doors  of  the 
Odd  Fellows'  halls.  He  had  a  wagon." 

"But  didn't  you  never  go  to  a  college?" 

"Huh?  What?  College?  No,  I  never  went.  Learned  from 
the  fellow." 

Trina  rolled  down  her  sleeves.  She  was  a  little  paler  than  usual. 
She  fastened  the  buttons  into  the  cuffs  and  said : 

"But  do  you  know  you  can't  practice  unless  you're  graduated 
from  a  college?  You  haven't  the  right  to  call  yourself  'doctor.'" 

McTeague  stared  a  moment  •  then : 

"Why,  I've  been  practicing  ten  years.     More— nearly  twelve." 

"But  it's  the  law." 

"What's  the  law  ?" 


McTeague  165 

"That  you  can't  practice,  or  call  yourself  doctor,  unless  you've 
got  a  diploma.'' 

"What's  that— a  diploma?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  It's  a  kind  of  paper  that — that — oh,  Mac, 
we're  ruined."  Trina's  voice  rose  to  a  cry. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Trina  ?  Ain't  I  a  dentist  ?  Ain't  I  a  doc 
tor?  Look  at  my  sign,  and  the  gold  tooth  you  gave  me.  Why,  I've 
been  practicing  nearly  twelve  years." 

Trina  shut  her  lips  tightly,  cleared  her  throat,  and  pretended  to 
resettle  a  hairpin  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

"I  guess  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that,"  she  said,  very  quietly.  "Let's 
read  this  again.  'Herewith  prohibited  and  enjoined  from  further 
Continuing—'  "  She  read  to  the  end.  . 

"Why,   it   isn't   possible,"   she   cried.     "They   can't  mean — ohX. 
Mac,  I  do  believe — pshaw !"  she  exclaimed,  her  pale  face  flushing. 
"They  don't  know  how  good  a  dentist  you  are.     What  difference 
does  a  diploma  make,  if  you're  a  first-class  dentist?    I  guess  that's/ 
all  right.    Mac,  didn't  you  ever  go  to  a  dental  college  ?"  / 

"No,"  answered  McTeague,  doggedly.  "What  was  the  goocf? 
I  learned  how  to  operate ;  wa'n't  that  enough  ?" 

"Hark,"  said  Trina,  suddenly.  "Wasn't  that  the  bell  of  your 
office?"  They  had  both  heard  the  jangling  of  the  bell  that  Mc 
Teague  had  hung  over  the  door  of  his  "Parlors."  The  dentist 
looked  at  the  kitchen  clock. 

"That's  Vanovitch,"  said  he.  "He's  a  plumber  round  on  Sut- 
ter  Street.  He's  got  an  appointment  with  me  to  have  a  bicuspid 
pulled.  I  got  to  go  back  to  work."  He  rose. 

"But  you  can't,"  cried  Trina,  the  back  of  her  hand  upon  her  lips, 
her  eyes  brimming.  "Mac,  don't  you  see?  Can't  you  understand? 
You've  got  to  stop.  Oh,  it's  dreadful!  Listen."  She  hurried 
around  the  table  to  him  and  caught  his  arm  in  both  her  hands. 

"Huh?"  growled  McTeague,  looking  at  her  with  a  puzzled 
frown. 

"They'll  arrest  you.  You'll  go  to  prison.  You  can't  work — 
can't  work  any  more.  We're  ruined." 

Vanovitch  was  pounding  on  the  door  of  the  sitting-room. 

"He'll  be  gone  in  a  minute,"  exclaimed  McTeague. 

"Well,  let  him  go.    Tell  him  to  go;  tell  him  to  come  again." 

"Why,  he's  got  an  appointment  with  me,"  exclaimed  McTeague, 
his  hand  upon  the  door. 

Trina  caught  him  back.     "But,  Mac,  you  ain't  a  dentist  any 


1 66  McTeague 

longer;  you  ain't  a  doctor.  You  haven't  the  right  to  work.  You 
never  went  to  a  dental  college." 

"Well,  suppose  I  never  went  to  a  college,  ain't  I  a  dentist  just 
the  same?  Listen,  he's  pounding  there  again.  No,  I'm  going, 
sure." 

"Well,  of  course,  go,"  said  Trina,  with  sudden  reaction.  "It 
ain't  possible  they'll  make  you  stop.  If  you're  a  good  dentist,  that's 
all  that's  wanted.  Go  on,  Mac;  hurry,  before  he  goes." 

McTeague  went  out,  closing  the  door.  Trina  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  looking  intently  at  the  bricks  at  her  feet.  Then  she  returned 
to  the  table,  and  sat  down  again  before  the  notice,  and,  resting  her 
head  on  both  her  fists,  read  it  yet  another  time.  Suddenly  the  con 
viction  seized  upon  her  that  it  was  all  true.  McTeague  would  be 
obliged  to  stop  work,  no  matter  how  good  a  dentist  he  was.  But 
why  had  the  authorities  at  the  City  Hall  waited  this  long  before 
serving  the  notice?  All  at  once  Trina  snapped  her  fingers,  with  a 
quick  flash  of  intelligence. 

"It's  Marcus  that's  done  it,"  she  cried. 

It  was  like  a  clap  of  thunder.  McTeague  was  stunned,  stupefied. 
He  said  nothing.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  taciturn.  At 
times  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  Trina  when  she  spoke  to  him,  and 
often  she  had  to  shake  him  by  the  shoulder  to  arouse  his  attention. 
He  would  sit  apart  in  his  "Parlors,"  turning  the  notice  about  in  his 
enormous  clumsy  fingers,  reading  it  stupidly  over  and  over  again. 
He  couldn't  understand.  What  had  a  clerk  at  the  City  Hall  to  do 
with  him  ?  Why  couldn't  they  let  him  alone  ? 

"Oh,  what's  to  become  of  us  now?"  wailed  Trina.  "What's  to 
become  of  us  now?  We're  paupers,  beggars — and  all  so  sudden." 
And  once,  in  a  quick,  inexplicable  fury,  totally  unlike  any  thing  that 
McTeague  had  noticed  in  her  before,  she  had  started  up,  with  fists 
and  teeth  shut  tight,  and  had  cried,  "Oh,  if  you'd  only  killed  Marcus 
Schouler  that  time  he  fought  you !" 

McTeague  had  continued  his  work,  acting  from  sheer  force  of 
habit;  his  sluggish,  deliberate  nature,  methodical,  obstinate,  refus 
ing  to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  conditions. 

"Maybe  Marcus  was  only  trying  to  scare  us,"  Trina  had  said. 
"How  are  they  going  to  know  whether  you're  practicing  or  not?" 

"I  got  a  mold  to  make  to-morrow,"  McTeague  said,  "and  Vano- 
vitch,  that  plumber  round  on  Sutter  Street,  he's  coming  again  at 
three." 


McTeague  167 

"Well,  you  go  right  ahead,"  Trina  told  him,  decisively;  "you 
go  right  ahead  and  make  the  mold,  and  pull  every  tooth  in  Vano- 
vitch's  head  if  you  want  to.  Who's  going  to  know?  Maybe  they 
just  sent  that  notice  as  a  matter  of  form.  Maybe  'Marcus  got  that 
paper  and  filled  it  in  himself." 

The  two  would  lie  awake  all  night  long,  staring  up  into  the  dark, 
talking,  talking,  talking. 

"Haven't  you  got  any  right  to  practice  if  you've  not  been  to  a 
dental  college,  Mac?  Didn't  you  ever  go?"  Trina  would  ask  again 
and  again. 

"No,  no,"  answered  the  dentist,  "I  never  went.  I  learned  from 
the  fellow  I  was  apprenticed  to.  I  don'  know  anything  about  a 
dental  college.  Ain't  I  got  a  right  to  do  as  I  like  ?"  he  suddenly  ex 
claimed. 

"If  you  know  your  profession,  isn't  that  enough?"  cried  Trina. 

"Sure,  sure,"  growled  McTeague.  "I  ain't  going  to  stop  for 
them." 

"You  go  right  on,"  Trina  said,  "and  I  bet  you  won't  hear  an 
other  word  about  it." 

"Suppose  I  go  round  to  the  City  Hall  and  see  them,"  haz 
arded  McTeague. 

"No,  no,  don't  you  do  it,  Mac,"  exclaimed  Trina.  "Because  if 
Marcus  has  done  this  just  to  scare  you,  they  won't  know  anything 
about  it  there  at  the  City  Hall;  but  they'll  begin  to  ask  you  ques 
tions,  and  find  out  that  you  never  had  graduated  from  a  dental 
college,  and  you'd  be  just  as  bad  off  as  ever." 

"Well,  I  ain't  going  to  quit  for  just  a  piece  of  paper,"  declared 
the  dentist.  The  phrase  stuck  to  him.  All  day  long  he  went  about 
their  rooms  or  continued  at  his  work  in  the  "Parlors,"  growling  be 
hind  his  thick  mustache:  "I  ain't  going  to  quit  for  just  a  piece  of  i 
paper.  No,  I  ain't  going  to  quit  for  just  a  piece  of  paper.  Sure 
not." 

The  days  passed,  a  week  went  by,  McTeague  continued  his  work 
as  usual.  They  heard  no  more  from  the  City  Hall,  but  the  suspense 
of  the  situation  was  harrowing.  Trina  was  actually  sick  with  it. 
The  terror  of  the  thing  was  ever  at  their  elbows,  going  to  bed  with 
them,  sitting  down  with  them  at  breakfast  in  the  kitchen,  keeping 
them  company  all  through  the  day.  Trina  dared  not  think  of  what 
would  be  their  fate  if  the  income  derived  from  McTeague's  prac 
tice  was  suddenly  taken  from  them.  Then  they  would  have  to  fall 
back  on  the  interest  of  her  lottery  money  and  the  pittance  she  de- 


McTeague 

rived  from  the  manufacture  of  the  Noah's  ark  animals,  a  little  over 
thirty  dollars  a  month.  No,  no,  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  It 
could  not  be  that  their  means  of  livelihood  was  to  be  thus  stricken 
from  them. 

A  fortnight  went  by.  "I  guess  we're  all  right,  Mac,"  Trina  al 
lowed  herself  to  say.  "It  looks  as  though  we  were  all  right.  How 
are  they  going  to  tell  whether  you're  practicing  or  not?" 

That  day  a  second  and  much  more  peremptory  notice  was  served 
upon  McTeague  by  an  official  in  person.  Then  suddenly  Trina  was 
seized  with  a  panic  terror,  unreasoned,  instinctive.  If  McTeague 
persisted  they  would  both  be  sent  to  a  prison,  she  was  sure  of  it ;  a 
place  where  people  were  chained  to  the  wall,  in  the  dark,  and  fed  on 
bread  and  water. 

"Oh,  Mac,  you've  got  to  quit,"  she  wailed.  "You  can't  go  on. 
They  can  make  you  stop.  Oh,  why  didn't  you  go  to  a  dental  col 
lege?  Why  didn't  you  find  out  that  you  had  to  have  a  college  de 
gree  ?  And  now  we're  paupers,  beggars.  We've  got  to  leave  here — 
leave  this  flat  where  I've  been — where  we've  been  so  happy,  and 
sell  all  the  pretty  things;  sell  the  pictures  and  the  melodeon,  and — 
Oh,  it's  too  dreadful!" 

"Huh?  Huh?  What?  What?"  exclaimed  the  dentist  be 
wildered.  "I  ain't  going  to  quit  for  just  a  piece  of  paper.  Let  them 
put  me  out.  I'll  show  them.  They — they  can't  make  small  of  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  fine  to  talk  that  way,  but  you'll  have 
to  quit." 

"Well,  we  ain't  paupers,"  McTeague  suddenly  exclaimed,  an 
idea  entering  his  mind.  "WeVe  got  our  money  yet.  You've  got 
your  five  thousand  dollars  and  the  money  you've  been  saving  up. 
People  ain't  paupers  when  they've  got  over  five  thousand  dollars." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mac?"  cried  Trina  apprehensively. 

"Well,  we  can  live  on  that  money  until — until — until — "  he  broke 
off  with  an  uncertain  movement  of  his  shoulders,  looking  about  him 
stupidly. 

"Until  when?"  cried  Trina.  "There  ain't  ever  going  to  be  any 
'until'  We've  got  the  interest  of  that  five  thousand  and  we've  got 
what  Uncle  Oelbermann  gives  me,  a  little  over  thirty  dollars  a 
month,  and  that's  all  we've  got.  You'll  have  to  find  something 
else  to  do." 

"What  will  I  find  to  do?" 

What,  indeed?  McTeague  was  over  thirty  now,  sluggish  and 
slow-witted  at  best.  What  new  trade  could  he'  learn  at  this  age  ? 


McTeague  1 69 

Little  by  little  Trina  made  the  dentist  understand  the  calamity 
that  had  befallen  them,  and  McTeague  at  last  began  canceling  his 
appointments.  Trina  gave  it  out  that  he  was  sick. 

"Not  a  soul  need  know  what's  happened  to  us,"  she  said  to  her 
husband. 

But  it  was  only  by  slow  degrees  that  McTeague  abandoned  his 
profession.  Every  morning  after  breakfast  he  would  go  into  his 
"Parlors"  as  usual  and  potter  about  his  instruments,  his  dental 
engine,  and  his  washstand  in  the  corner  behind  his  screen  where 
he  made  his  molds.  Now  he  would  sharpen  a  "hoe"  excavator,  now 
he  would  busy  himself  for  a  whole  hour  making  "mats"  and  "cylin 
ders."  Then  he  would  look  over  his  slate  where  he  kept  a  record  of 
his  appointments. 

One  day  Trina  softly  opened  the  door  of  the  "Parlors"  and 
came  in  from  the  sitting-room.  She  had  not  heard  McTeague  mov 
ing  about  for  some  time  and  had  begun  to  wonder  what  he  was 
doing.  She  came  in,  quietly  shutting  the  door  behind  her. 

McTeague  had  tidied  the  room  with  the  greatest  care.  The 
volumes  of  the  "Practical  Dentist"  and  the  "American  System  of 
Dentistry"  were  piled  upon  the  marble-top  centre-table  in  rectangu 
lar  blocks.  The  few  chairs  were  drawn  up  against  the  wall  under 
the  steel  engraving  of  "Lorenzo  de'  Medici"  with  more  than  usual 
precision.  The  dental  engine  and  the  nickeled  trimmings  of  the 
operating  chair  had  been  furbished  till  they  shone,  while  on  the 
movable  rack  in  the  bay  window  McTeague  had  arranged  his  in 
struments  with  the  greatest  neatness  and  regularity.  "Hoe"  ex 
cavators,  pluggers,  forceps,  pliers,  corundum  disks  and  burrs,  even 
the  boxwood  mallet  that  Trina  was  never  to  use  again,  all  were  laid 
out  and  ready  for  immediate  use. 

McTeague  himself  sat  in  his  operating  chair,  looking  stupidly  out 
of  the  windows,  across  the  roofs  opposite,  with  an  unseeing  gaze, 
his  red  hands  lying  idly  in  his  lap.  Trina  came  up  to  him.  There 
was  something  in  his  eyes  that  made  her  put  both  arms  around  his 
neck  and  lay  his  huge  head  with  its  coarse  blond  hair  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"I — I  got  everything  fixed,"  he  said.  "I  got  everything  fixed 
an'  ready.  See,  everything  ready  an'  waitin'  an' — an' — an'  nobody 
comes,  anj  nobody's  ever  going-  to  come  any  more.  Oh,  Trina!" 
He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  down  closer  to  him. 

"Never  mind,  dear ;  never  mind,"  cried  Trina,  through  her  tears. 
"It'll  all  come  right  in  the  end,  and  we'll  be  poor  together  if  we 

H— III— NORRIS 


McTeague 

have  to.  You  can  sure  find  something  else  to  do.  We'll  start  in 
again/' 

"Look  at  the  slate  there,"  said  McTeague,  pulling  away  from  her 
and  reaching  down  the  slate  on  which  he  kept  a  record  of  his  ap 
pointments.  "Look  at  them.  There's  Vanovitch  at  two  on  Wednes 
day,  and  Loughhead's  wife  Thursday  morning,  and  Heise's  little 
girl  Thursday  afternoon  at  one-thirty ;  Mrs.  Watson  on  Friday,  and 
Vanovitch  again  Saturday  morning  early — at  seven.  That's  what  I 
was  to  have  had,  and  they  ain't  going  to  come.  They  ain't  ever 
going  to  come  any  more." 

Trina  took  the  little  slate  from  him  arid  looked  at  it  ruefully. 

"Rub  them  out,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling ;  "rub  it  all  out ;" 
and  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  brimmed  again,  and  a  great  tear  dropped 
on  the  slate.  "That's  it,"  she  said ;  "that's  the  way  to  rub  it  out,  by 
me  crying  on  it."  Then  she  passed  her  fingers  over  the  tear-blurred 
writing  and  washed  the  slate  clean.  "All  gone,  all  gone,"  she  said. 

"All  gone,"  echoed  the  dentist.  There  was  a  silence.  Then 
McTeague  heaved  himself  up  to  his  full  six  feet  two,  his  face 
purpling,  his  enormous  mallet-like  fists  faised  over  his  head.  His 
massive  jay  protruded  more  than  ever,  while  his  teeth  clicked  and 
grated  together;  then  he  growled: 

"If  ever  I  meet  Marcus  Schouler — "  he  broke  off  abruptly,  the 
white  oi  his  eyes  growing  suddenly  pink. 

"Oh,  if  ever  you  do"  exclaimed  Trina,  catching  her  breath. 


XIV 

"WELL,  what  do  you  think?"  said  Trina. 

She  and  McTeague  stood  in  a  tiny  room  at  the  back  of  the  flat 
and  on  its  very  top  floor.  The  room  was  whitewashed.  It  con 
tained  a  bed,  three  cane-seated  chairs,  and  a  wooden  washstand 
with  its  washbowl  and  pitcher.  From  its  single  uncurtained  window 
one  looked  down  into  the  flat's  dirty  back  yard  and  upon  the  roofs  of 
the  hovels  that  bordered  the  alley  in  the  rear.  There  was  a  rag 
carpet  on  the  floor.  In  place  of  a  closet  some  dozen  wooden  pegs 
were  affixed  to  the  wall  over  the  washstand.  There  was  a  smell  of 
cheap  soap  and  of  ancient  hair-oil  in  the  air. 

"That's  a  single  bed,"  said  Trina,  "but  the  landlady  says  she'll 
put  in  a  double  one  for  us.  You  see — " 


McTeague  171 

"I  ain't  going  to  live  here,"  growled  McTeague. 

"Well,  you've  got  to  live  somewhere,"  said  Trina  impatiently. 
"We've  looked  Polk  Street  over,  and  this  is  the  only  thing  we  can 
afford." 

"Afford,  afford,"  muttered  the  dentist.  "You  with  your  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  the  two  or  three  hundred  you  got  saved  up, 
talking  about  'afford/  _You  make  me  sick." 

"Now,  Mac,"  exclaimed  Trina,  deliberately,  sitting  down  in  one 
of  the  cane-seated  chairs;  "now,  Mac,  let's  have  this  thing — " 

"Well,  I  don't  figure  on  living  in  one  room,"  growled  the  dentist 
sullenly.  "Let's  live  decently  until  we  can  get  a  fresh  start.  We've 
got  the  money." 

"Who's  got  the  money?" 

"We've  got  it." 

"We!" 

"Well,  it's  all  in  the  family.  What's  yours  is  mine,  and  what's 
mine  is  yours,  ain't  it?" 

"No,  it's  not;  no,  it's  not;  no,  it's  not,"  cried  Trina  vehemently. 
"It's  all  mine,  mine.  There's  not  a  penny  of  it  belongs  to  anybody 
else.  I  don't  like  to  have  to  talk  this  way  to  you,  but  you  just  make 
me.  We're  not  going  to  touch  a  penny  of  my  five  thousand  nor  a 
penny  of  that  little  money  I  managed  to  save — that  seventy-five." 

"That  two  hundred,  you  mean." 

"That  seventy-five.  We're  just  going  to  live  on  the  interest  of 
that  and  on  what  I  earn  from  Uncle  Oelbermann — on  just  that  thirty- 
one  or  two  dollars." 

"Huh!  Think  I'm  going  to  do  that,  an'  live  in  such  a  room  as 
this?" 

Trina  folded  her  arms  and  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  then?" 

"Huh?" 

"I  say,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  can  go  on  and  find 
something  to  do  and  earn  some  more  money,  and  then  we'll  talk." 

"Well,  I  ain't  going  to  live  here." 

"Oh,  very  well,  suit  yourself.     I'm  going  to  live  here." 

"You'll  live  where  I  tell  you,"  the  dentist  suddenly  cried,  ex 
asperated  at  the  mincing  tone  she  affected. 

"Then  you'll  pay  the  rent,"  exclaimed  Trina,  quite  as  angry 
as  he. 

"Are  you  my  boss,  I'd  like  to  know  ?    Who's  the  boss,  you  or  I  ?" 

"Who's  got  the  money,  I'd  like  to  know?"  cried  Trina,  flushing 


McTeague 

to  her  pale  lips.  "Answer  me  that,  McTeague,  who's  got  the 
money  ?" 

"You  make  me  sick,  you  and  your  money.  Why,  you're  a  miser. 
I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  When  I  was  practicing,  I  never 
thought  of  my  fees  as  my  own ;  we  lumped  everything  in  together." 

"Exactly;  and  I'm  doing  the  working  now.  I'm  working  for 
Uncle  Oelbermann,  and  you're  not  lumping  in  anything  now.  I'm 
doing  it  all.  Do  you  know  what  I'm  doing,  McTeague?  I'm  sup 
porting  you." 

"Ah,  shut  up;  you  make  me  sick." 

"You  got  no  right  to  talk  to  me  that  way.  I  won't  let  you.  I 
— I  won't  have  it."  She  caught  her  breath.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  live  where  you  like,  then,"  said  McTeague  sullenly. 

"Well,  shall  we  take  this  room  then?" 

"All  right,  we'll  take  it.  But  why  can't  you  take  a  little  of  your 
money  an' — an' — sort  of  fix  it  up?" 

"Not  a  penny,  not  a  single  penny." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  do."  And  for  the  rest  of  the  day 
the  dentist  and  his  wife  did  not  speak. 

This  was  not  the  only  quarrel  they  had  during  these  days  when 
they  were  occupied  in  moving  from  their  suite  and  in  looking  for 
new  quarters.  Every  hour  the  question  of  money  came  up.  Trina 
had  become  more  niggardly  than  ever  since  the  loss  of  McTeague's 
practice.  It  was  not  mere  economy  with  her  now.  It  was  a  panic 
terror  lest  a  fraction  of  a  cent  of  her  little  savings  should  be  touched ; 
a  passionate  eagerness  to  continue  to  save  in  spite  of  all  that  had 
happened.  Trina  could  have  easily  afforded  better  quarters  than  the 
single  whitewashed  room  at  the  top  of  the  flat,  but  she  made  Mc 
Teague  believe  that  it  was  impossible. 

"I  can  still  save  a  little,"  she  said  to  herself,  after  the  room  had 
been  engaged;  "perhaps  almost  as  much  as  ever.  I'll  have  three 
hundred  dollars  pretty  soon,  and  Mac  thinks  it's  only  two  hundred. 
It's  almost  two  hundred  and  fifty ;  and  I'll  get  a  good  deal  out  of  the 
sale." 

But  this  sale  was  a  long  agony.  It  lasted  a  week.  Everything 
went — everything  but  the  few  big  pieces  that  went  with  the  suite, 
and  that  belonged  to  the  photographer.  The  melodeon,  the  chairs, 
the  black  walnut  table  before  which  they  were  married,  the  exten 
sion  table  in  the  sitting-room,  the  kitchen  table  with  its  oilcloth 
cover,  the  framed  lithographs  from  the  English  illustrated  papers, 
the  very  carpets  on  the  floors.  But  Trina's  heart  nearly  broke  when 


McTeague  1 73 

the  kitchen  utensils  and  furnishings  began  to  go.  Every  pot,  every 
stewpan,  every  knife  and  fork,  was  an  old  friend.  How  she  had 
worked  over  them !  How  clean  she  had  kept  them !  What  a  pleas 
ure  it  had  been  to  invade  that  little  brick-paved  kitchen  every 
morning,  and  to  wash  up  and  put  to  rights  after  breakfast,  turning 
on  the  hot  water  at  the  sink,  raking  down  the  ashes  in  the  cook- 
stove,  going  and  coming  over  the  warm  bricks,  her  head  in  the 
air,  singing  at  her  work,  proud  in  the  sense  of  her  proprietorship 
and  her  independence !  How  happy  had  she  been  the  day  after  her 
marriage  when  she  had  first  entered  that  kitchen  and  knew  that  it 
was  all  her  own!  And  how  well  she  remembered  her  raids  upon 
the  bargain  counters  in  the  housefurnishing  departments  of  the 
great  down-town  stores!  And  now  it  was  all  to  go.  Some  one 
else  would  have  it  all,  while  she  was  relegated  to  cheap  restaurants 
and  meals  cooked  by  hired  servants.  Night  after  night  she  sobbed 
herself  to  sleep  at  the  thought  of  her  past  happiness  and  her  present 
wretchedness.  However,  she  was  not  alone  in  her  unhappiness. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  keep  the  steel  engraving  an'  the  stone 
pug  dog,"  declared  the  dentist,  his  fist  clinching.  When  it  had  come 
to  the  sale  of  his  office  effects  McTeague  had  rebelled  with  the  in 
stinctive  obstinacy  of  a  boy ;  shutting  his  eyes  and  ears.  Only  little 
by  little  did  Trina  induce  him  to  part  with  his  office  furniture.  He 
fought  over  every  article,  over  the  little  iron  stove,  the  bed-lounge, 
the  marble-topped  centre  table,  the  whatnot  in  the  corner,  the  bound 
volumes  of  "Allen's  Practical  Dentist,"  the  rifle  manufacturer's 
calendar,  and  the  prim,  military  chairs.  A  veritable  scene  took  place 
between  him  and  his  wife  before  he  could  bring  himself  to  part  with 
the  steel  engraving  of  "Lorenzo  de'  Medici  and  His  Court"  and 
the  stone  pug  dog  with  its  goggle  eyes. 

"Why,"  he  would  cry,  "I've  had  'em  ever  since — ever  since  I 
began;  long  before  I  knew  you,  Trina.  That  steel  engraving  I 
bought  in  Sacramento  one  day  when  it  was  raining.  I  saw  it  in  the 
window  of  a  second-hand  store,  and  a  fellow  gave  me  that  stone 
pug  dog.  He  was  a  druggist.  It  was  in  Sacramento,  too.  We 
traded.  I  gave  him  a  shaving-mug  and  a  razor,  and  he  gave  me  the 
pug  dog." 

There  were,  however,  two  of  his  belongings  that  even  Trina  could  \ 
not  induce  him  to  part  with. 

"And  your  concertina,  Mac,"  she  prompted,  as  they  were  making  j 
out  the  list  for  the  second-hand  dealer.  "The  concertina,  and — oh,  / 
yes,  the  canary  and  the  bird  cage.' 


174  McTeague 

"No." 

"Mac,  you  must  be  reasonable.  The  concertina  would  bring 
quite  a  sum,  and  the  bird  cage  is  as  good  as  new.  I'll  sell  the 
canary  to  the  bird-store  man  on  Kearney  Street." 

"No." 

"If  you're  going  to  make  objections  to  every  single  thing,  we 
might  as  well  quit.  Come,  now,  Mac,  the  concertina  and  the  bird 
cage.  We'll  put  them  in  Lot  D." 

"No." 

"You'll  have  to  come  to  it  sooner  or  later.  I'm  giving  up  every 
thing.  I'm  going  to  put  them  down,  see." 

"No." 

And  she  could  get  no  further  than  that.  The  dentist  did  not 
lose  his  temper,  as  in  the  case  of  the  steel  engraving  or  the  stone 
pug  dog;  he  simply  opposed  her  entreaties  and  persuasions  with  a 
passive,  inert  obstinacy  that  nothing  could  move.  In  the  end  Trina 
was  obliged  to  submit.  McTeague  kept  his  concertina  and  his 
canary,  even  going  so  far  as  to  put  them  both  away  in  the  bedroom, 
attaching  to  them  tags  on  which  he  had  scrawled  in  immense  round 
letters,  "Not  for  Sale." 

One  evening  during  that  same  week  the  dentist  and  his  wife 
were  in  the  dismantled  sitting-room.  The  room  presented  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  wreck.  The  Nottingham  lace  curtains  were  down. 
The  extension  table  was  heaped  high  with  dishes,  with  tea  and  coffee 
pots,  and  with  baskets  of  spoons  and  knives  and  forks.  The  melo- 
deon  was  hauled  out  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  covered  with  a 
sheet  marked  "Lot  A,"  the  pictures  were  in  a  pile  in  a  corner,  the 
chenille  portieres  were  folded  on  top  of  the  black  walnut  table. 
The  room  was  desolate,  lamentable.  Trina  was  going  over  the  in 
ventory;  McTeague,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  was  smoking  his  pipe, 
looking  stupidly  out  of  the  window.  All  at  once  there  was  a  brisk 
rapping  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  called  Trina  apprehensively.  Nowadays  at  every 
unexpected  visit  she  anticipated  a  fresh  calamity.  The  door  opened 
to  let  in  a  young  man  wearing  a  checked  suit,  a  gay  cravat,  and  a 
marvelously  figured  waistcoat.  Trina  and  McTeague  recognized  him 
at  once.  It  was  the  Other  Dentist,  the  debonair  fellow  whose  clients 
were  the  barbers  and  the  young  women  of  the  candy  stores  and 
soda-water  fountains,  the  poser,  the  wearer  of  waistcoats,  who  bet 
money  on  greyhound  races. 

"How'do?"  said  this  one,  bowing  gracefully  to  the  McTeagues 


McTeague  175 

as  they  stared  at  him  distrustfully.  "How'do?  They  tell  me,  Doc 
tor  that  you  are  going  out  of  the  profession." 

McTeague  muttered  indistinctly  behind  his  mustache  and  glow 
ered  at  him. 

"Well,  say,"  continued  the  other  cheerily,  "I'd  like  to  talk  busi 
ness  with  you.  That  sign  of  yours,  that  big  golden  tooth  that  you 
got  outside  of  your  window,  I  don't  suppose  you'll  have  any  further 
use  for  it.  Maybe  I'd  buy  it  if  we  could  agree  on  terms." 

Trina  shot  a  glance  at  her  husband.  McTeague  began  to  glower 
again. 

"What  do  you  say?"  said  the  Other  Dentist. 

"I  guess  not,"  growled  McTeague. 

"Wrhat  do  you  say  to  ten  dollars?" 

"Ten  dollars !"  cried  Trina,  her  chin  in  the  air. 

"Well,  what  figure  do  you  put  on  it?" 

Trina  was  about  to  answer  when  she  was  interrupted  by  Mc 
Teague. 

"You  go  out  of  here." 

"Hey?    What?" 

"You  go  out  of  here." 

The  other  retreated  toward  the  door. 

"You  can't  make  small  of  me.    Go  out  of  here." 

McTeague  came  forward  a  step,  his  great  red  fist  clinching.  The 
young  man  fled.  But  half  way  down  the  stairs  he  paused  long 
enough  to  call  back: 

"You  don't  want  to  trade  anything  for  a  diploma,  do  you  ?" 

McTeague  and  his  wife  exchanged  looks. 

"How  did  he  know?"  exclaimed  Trina  sharply.  They  had 
invented  and  spread  the  fiction  that  McTeague  was  merely  retiring 
from  business,  without  assigning  any  reason.  But  evidently  every 
one  knew  the  real  cause.  The  jyimiliatior^  w^_c£rnplete_iiow.  Old 
Miss  Baker  confirmed  their  suspicions  on  this  point  the  next  day. 
The  little  retired  dressmaker  came  down  and  wept  with  Trina  over 
her  misfortune,  and  did  what  'she  could  to  encourage  her.  But  she, 
too,  knew  that  McTeague  had  been  forbidden  by  the  authorities  from 
practicing.  Marcus  had  evidently  left  them  no  loophole  of  escape. 

"It's  just  likejcu^ng^fi  your ^^  Jijisband!5JiajTds,my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Baker7^"And  you  two  were  so  happy WhenTlirsFsaw  you 
together  I  said,  'What  a  pair !'  " 

Old  Grannis  also  called  during  this  period  of  the  breaking  up 
of  the  McTeague  household. 


McTeague 

"Dreadful,  dreadful,",  murmured  the  old  Englishman,  his  hand 
going  tremulously  to  his  chin.  "It  seems  unjust ;  it  does.  But  Mr. 
Schouler  could  not  have  set  them  on  to  do  it.  I  can't  quite  believe 
it  of  him." 

"Of  Marcus !"  cried  Trina.  "Hoh !  Why,  he  threw  his  knife 
at  Mac  one  time,  and  another  time  he  bit  him,  actually  bit  him  with 
his  teeth,  while  they  were  wrestling  just  for  fun.  Marcus  would 
do  anything  to  injure  Mac." 

"Dear,  dear,"  returned  Old  Grannis,  genuinely  pained.  "I  had 
always  believed  Schouler  to  be  such  a  good  fellow." 

"That's  because  you're  so  good  yourself,  Mr.  Grannis,"  re 
sponded  Trina. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Doc,"  declared  Heise,  the  harness-maker,  shak 
ing  his  finger  impressively  at  the  dentist,  "you  must  fight  it;  you 
must  appeal  to  the  courts;  you've  been  practicing  too  long  to  be 
debarred  now.  The  statute  of  limitations,  you  know." 

"No,  no,"  Trina  had  exclaimed,  when  the  dentist  had  repeated 
this  advice  to  her.  "No,  no,  don't  go  near  the  law  courts.  7  know 
them.  The  lawyers  take  all  your  money,  and  you  lose  your  case. 
We're  bad  off  as  it  is,  without  lawing  about  it." 

Then  at  last  came  the  sale.  McTeague  and  Trina,  whom  Miss 
Baker  had  invited  to  her  room  for  that  day,  sat  there  side  by  side, 
holding  each  other's  hands,  listening  nervously  to  the  turmoil  that 
rose  to  them  from  the  direction  of  their  suite.  From  nine  o'clock  till 
dark  the  crowds  came  and  went.  All  Polk  Street  seemed  to  have 
invaded  the  suite,  lured  on  by  the  red  flag  that  waved  from  the 
front  windows.  It  was  a  fete,  a  veritable  holiday,  for  the  whole 
neighborhood.  People  with  no  thought  of  buying  presented  them 
selves.  Young  women — the  candy-store  girls  and  florist's  appren 
tices — came  to  see  the  fun,  walking  arm  in  arm  from  room  to  room, 
making  jokes  about  the  pretty  lithographs  and  mimicking  the  picture 
of  the  two  little  girls  saying  their  prayers. 

"Look  here,"  they  would  cry,  "look  here  what  she  used  for  cur 
tains — Nottingham  lace,  actually!  Whoever  thinks  of  buying  Not 
tingham  lace  nowadays  ?  Say,  don't  that  jar  you  ?" 

"And  a  melodeon,"  another  one  would  exclaim,  lifting  the  sheet. 
"A  melodeon,  when  you  can  rent  a  piano  for  a  dollar  a  week;  and 
say,  I  really  believe  they  used  to  eat  in  the  kitchen." 

"Dollarn-half,  dollarn-half,  dollarn-half,  give  me  two,"  intoned 
the  auctioneer  from  the  second-hand  store.  By  noon  the  crowd 
became  a  jam.  Wagons  backed  up  to  the  curb  outside  and  de- 


McTeague  177 

parted  heavily  laden.  In  all  directions  people  could  be  seen  'going 
away  from  the  house,  carrying  small  articles  of  furniture — a  clock, 
a  water  pitcher,  a  towel  rack.  Every  now  and  then  old  Miss  Baker, 
who  had  gone  below  to  see  how  things  were  progressing,  returned 
with  reports  of  the  foray. 

"Mrs.  Heise  bought  the  chenille  portieres.  Mister  Ryer  made 
a  bid  for  your  bed,  but  a  man  in  a  gray  coat  bid  over  him.  It  was 
knocked  down  for  three  dollars  and  a  half.  The  German  shoe 
maker  on  the  next  block  bought  the  stone  pug  dog.  I  saw  our  post 
man  going  away  with  a  lot  of  the  pictures.  Zerkow  has  come,  on  my 
word!  the  rags-bottles-sacks  man;  he's  buying  lots;  he  bought  all 
Doctor  McTeague's  gold  tape  and  some  of  the  instruments.  Maria's 
there  too.  That  dentist  on  the  corner  took  the  dental  engine,  and 
wanted  to  get  the  sign,  the  big  gold  tooth,  and  so  on  and  so  on. 
Crudest  of  all,  however,  at  least  to  Trina,  was  when  Miss  Baker 
herself  began  to  buy,  unable  to  resist  a  bargain.  The  last  time  she 
came  up  she  carried  a  bundle  of  the  gay  tidies  that  used  to  hang  over 
the  chair  back». 

"He  offered  them,  three  for  a  nickel,"  she  explained  to  Trina, 
"and  I  thought  I'd  spend  just  a  quarter.  You  don't  mind,  now,  do 
you,  Mrs.  McTeague?" 

"Why,  no,  of  course  not,  Miss  Baker,"  answered  Trina,  bravely. 

"They'll  look  very  pretty  on  some  of  my  chairs,"  went  on  the  lit 
tle  old  dressmaker,  innocently.  "See."  She  spread  one  of  them  on 
a  chair  back  for  inspection.  Trina's  chin  quivered. 

"Oh,  very  pretty,"  she  answered. 

At  length  that  dreadful  day  was  over.  The  crowd  dispersed. 
Even  the  auctioneer  went  at  last,  and  as  he  closed  the  door  with  a 
bang,  the  reverberation  that  went  through  the  suite  gave  evidence 
of  its  emptiness. 

"Come,"  said  Trina  to  the  dentist,  "let's  go  down  and  look — 
take  a  last  look." 

They  went  out  of  Miss  Baker's  room  and  descended  to  the  floor 
below.  On  the  stairs,  however,  they  were  met  by  Old  Grannis. 
In  his  hands  he  carried  a  little  package.  Was  it  possible  that  he 
too  had  taken  advantage  of  their  misfortunes  to  join  in  the  raid 
upon  the  suite? 

"I  went  in,"  he  began  timidly,  "for — for  a  few  moments.  This" 
— he  indicated  the  little  package  he  carried — "this  was  put  up.  It 
was  of  no  value  but  to  you.  I — I  ventured  to  bid  it  in.  I  thought 
perhaps" — his  hand  went  to  his  chin,  "that  you  wouldn't  mind ;  that 


178  McTeague 

— in  fact,  I  bought  it  for  you — as  a  present.  Will  you  take  it  ?"  He 
handed  the  package  to  Trina  and  hurried  on.  Trina  tore  off  the 
wrappings. 

It  was  the  framed  photograph  of  McTeague  and  his  wife  in  their 
wedding  finery,  the  one  that  had  been  taken  immediately  after  the 
marriage.  It  represented  Trina  sitting  very  erect  in  a  rep  arm 
chair,  holding  her  wedding  bouquet  straight  before  her,  McTeague 
standing  at  her  side,  his  left  foot  forward ;  one  hand  upon  her  shoul 
der,  and  the  other  thrust  into  the  breast  of  his  " Prince  Albert" 
coat,  in  the  attitude  of  a  statue  of  a  Secretary  of  State. 

"Oh,  it  was  good  of  him,  it  was  good  of  him,"  cried  Trina,  her 
eyes  filling  again.  "I  had  forgotten  to  put  it  away.  Of  course  it 
was  not  for  sale." 

They  went  on  down  the  stairs,  and  arriving  at  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room,  opened  it  and  looked  in.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  there  was  just  light  enough  for  the  dentist  and  his  wife  to  see 
the  results  of  that  day  of  sale.  Nothing  was  left,  not  even  the  carpet. 
It  was  a  pillage,  a  devastation,  the  barrenness  of  a  field  after  the 
passage  of  a  swarm  of  locusts.  The  room  had  been  picked  and 
stripped  till  only  the  bare  walls  and  floor  remained.  Here  where 
they  had  been  married,  where  the  wedding  supper  had  taken  place, 
where  Trina  had  bade  farewell  to  her  father  and  mother,  here 
where  she  had  spent  those  first  few  hard  months  of  her  married 
life,  where  afterward  she  had  grown  to  be  happy  and  contented, 
where  she  had  passed  the  long  hours  of  the  afternoon  at  her 
work  of  whittling,  and  where  she  and  her  husband  had  spent  so 
many  evenings  looking  out  of  the  window  before  the  lamp  was 
lighted — here  in  what  had  been  her  home,  nothing  was  left  but 
echoes  and  the  emptiness  of  complete  desolation.  Only  oneTfhing 
remained.  On  the  wall  between  the  windows,  in  its  oval  glass 
frame,  preserved  by  some  unknown  and  fearful  process,  a  melan 
choly  relic  of  a  vanished  happiness,  unsold,  neglected,  and  forgot 
ten,  a  thing  that  nobody  wanted,  hung  Trina's  wedding  bouquet. 


McTeague  1 79 


XV 

THEN  the  grind  began.  It  would  have  been  easier  for  the  Mc- 
Teagues  to  have  faced  their  misfortunes  had  they  befallen  them  im 
mediately  after  their  marriage,  when  their  love  for  each  other  was 
fresh  and  fine,  and  when  they  could  have  found  a  certain  happiness 
in  helping  each  other  and  sharing  each  other's  privations.  Trina,  no 
doubt,  loved  her  husband  more  than  ever,  in  the  sense  that  she  felt 
she  belonged  to  him.  But  McTeague's  affection  for  his  wife  was 
dwindling  a  little  every  day — had  been  dwindling  for  a  long 
time,  in  fact.  He  had  become  used  to  her  by  now.  "3fie 
was  part  of  the  order  of  things  with  which  he  found  him 
self  surrounded.  He  saw  nothing  extraordinary  about  her;  it 
was  no  longer  a  pleasure  for  him  to  kiss  her  and  take  her  in  his 
arms ;  she  was  merely  his  wife.  He  did  not  dislike  her ;  he  did  not 
love  her.  She  was  his  wife,  that  was  all.  But  he  sadly  missed  and 
regretted  all  those  little  animal  comforts  which  in  the  old  prosperous  ^ 
life  Trina  had  managed  to  find  for  him.  He  missed  the  cabbage 
soups  and  steaming  chocolate  that  Trina  had  taught  him  to  like ;  he 
missed  his  good  tobacco  that  Trina  had  educated  him  to  prefer ;  he 
missed  the  Sunday  afternoon  walks  that  she  had  caused  him  to  sub 
stitute  in  place  of  his  nap  in  the  operating  chair ;  and  he  missed  the 
bottled  beer  that  she  had  induced  him  to  drink  in  place  of  the  steam 
beer  from  Frenna's.  In  the  end  he  grew  morose  and  sulky,  and 
sometimes  neglected  to  answer  his  wife  when  she  spoke  to  him. 
Besides  this,  Trina's  avarice  was  a  perpetual  annoyance  to  him. 
Oftentimes  when  a  considerable  alleviation  of  this  unhappiness  could 
have  been  obtained  at  the  expense  of  a  nickel  or  a  dime,  Trina 
refused  the  money  with  a  pettishness  that  was  exasperating. 

"No,  no,"  she  would  exclaim.     "To  ride  to  the  park  Sunday; 
afternoon,  that  means  ten  cents,  and  I  can't  afford  it." 

"Let's  walk  there,  then." 

"I've  got  to  work/' 

"But  you've  worked  morning  and  afternoon  every  day  thia 
week/' 

"I  don't  care,  I've  got  to  work." 


i8o  McTeague 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Trina  had  hated  the  idea  of  Mc 
Teague  drinking  steam  beer  as  common  and  vulgar. 

"Say,  let's  have  a  bottle  of  beer  to-night.  We  haven't  had  a 
drop  of  beer  in  three  weeks." 

"We  can't  afford  it.    It's  fifteen  cents  a  bottle." 

"But  I  haven't  had  a  swallow  of  beer  in  three  weeks." 

"Drink  steam  beer,  then.     You've  got  a  nickel.     I  gave  you  a 
quarter  day  before  yesterday." 
/        "But  I  don't  like  steam  beer  now." 

It  was  so  with  everything.  Unfortunately,  Trina  had  culti 
vated  tastes  in 'McTeague  which  now  could  not  be  gratified.  He  had 
come  to  be  very  proud  of  his  silk  hat  and  "Prince  Albert"  coat,  and 
liked  to  wear  them  on  Sundays.  Trina  had  made  him  sell  both. 
He  preferred  "Yale  mixture"  in  his  pipe ;  Trina  had  made  him 
come  down  to  "Mastiff,"  a  five-cent  tobacco  with  which  he  was  once 
contented,  but  now  abhorred.  He  liked  to  wear  clean  cuffs.  Trina 
allowed  him  a  fresh  pair  on  Sundays  only.  At  first  these  depriva 
tions  angered  McTeague.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  slipped  back 
into  the  old  habits  (that  had  been  his  before  he  knew  Trina)  with 
an  ease  that  was  surprising.  Sundays  he  dined  at  the  car  con 
ductors'  coffee- joint  once  more,  and  spent  the  afternoon  lying  full 
length  upon  the  bed,  cropful,  stupid,  warm,  smoking  his  huge  pipe, 
drinking  his  steam  beer,  and  playing  his  six  mournful  tunes  upon  his 
concertina,  dozing  off  to  sleep  toward  four  o'clock. 

The  sale  of  their  furniture  had,  after  paying  the  rent  and  out 
standing  bills,  netted  about  a  hundred  and  thirty  dollars.  Trina 
believed  that  the  auctioneer  from  the  second-hand  store  had  swindled 
and  cheated  them  and  had  made  a  great  outcry  to  no  effect.  But 
she  had  arranged  the  affair  with  the  auctioneer  herself,  and  offset 
her  disappointment  in  the  matter  of  the  sale  by  deceiving  her  hus 
band  as  to  the  real  amount  of  the.  returns.  It  was  eas^JolieJd'IVTc- 
Teague,  who  took  everything  for  granted ;  and  since  the  occasion  of 
IKT  trickery  with  the  money  that  was  to  have  been  sent  to  her 
mother,  Trina  had  found  falsehood  easier  than  ever. 

"Seventy  dollars  is  all  the  auctioneer  gave  me,"  she  told  her 
husband;  "and  after  paying  the  balance  due  on  the  rent,  and  the 
grocer's  bill,  there's  only  fifty  left." 

"Only  fifty?"  murmured  McTeague,  wagging  his  head,  "only 
fifty?  Think  of  that." 

"(  >nly  fifty,"  declared  Trina.  Afterward  she  said  to  herself  with 
a  certain  admiration  for  her  cleverness : 


Mel  Vague  181 

"Couldn't  save  sixty  dollars  much  easier  than  that,**  and  she  had 
added  the  hundred  and  thirty  to  the  little  hoard  in  the  chamois-skin 
bag  and  brass  match-box  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk. 

In  these  first  months  of  their  misfortunes  the  routine  of  the  Mo 
Teagues  was  as  follows:  They  rose  at  seven  and  breakfasted  in  their 
room,  Trina  cooking  the  very  meagre  meal  on  an  oil  stove.  Imme 
diately  after  breakfast  Trina  sat  down  to  her  work  of  whittling 
the  Noah's  ark  animals,  and  McTeague  took  himself  off  to  walk 
down  town.  He  had  by  the  greatest  good  luck  secured  a  position 
with  a  manufacturer  of  surgical  instruments,  where  his  manual  dex 
terity  in  the  making  of  excavators,  pluggers,  and  other  dental  con 
trivances  stood  him  in  fairly  good  stead,  lie  lunched  at  a  sailors' 
boarding-house  near  the  water  front  and  in  the  afternoon  worked  till 
six.  He  was  home  at  six-thirty,  and  he  and  Trina  had  supper  to 
gether  in  the  "ladies'  dining-parlor,"  an  adjunct  of  the  car  conduc 
tors'  coffee-joint.  Trina,  meanwhile,  had  worked  at  her  whittling 
all  day  long,  with  but  half  an  hour's  interval  for  lunch,  which  she 
herself  prepared  upon  the  oil  stove.  In  the  evening  they  were  both 
so  tired  that  they  were  in  no  mood  for  conversation,  and  went  to 
bed  early,  worn  out,  harried,  nervous,  and  cross. 

Trina  was  not  quite  so  scrupulously  tidy  now  as  in  the  old  days.  ) 
At  one  time  while  whittling  the  Noah's  ark  animals  she  had  worn 
gloves.  She  never  wore  them  now.  She  still  took  pride  in  neatly 
combing  and  coiling  her  wonderful  black  hair,  but  as  the  days 
passed  she  found  it  more  and  more  comfortable  to  work  in  her  blue 
flannel  wrapper,  \\hittlings  and  chips  accumulated  under  the  win 
dow  where  she  did  her  work,  and  she  was  at  no  great  pains  to  cle.ir 
the  air  of  the  room  vitiated  by  the  fumes  of  the  oil  stove  and  !UM\  \ 
with  the  smell  of  cooking.  It  was  not  gay,  that  life.  The  room 
itself  was  not  gay.  The  huge  double  bed  sprawled  over  nearly  a 
fourth  of  the  available  space ;  the  angles  of  Trina's  trunk  and  the 
washstand  projected  into  the  room  from  the  walls,  and  barked 
shins  and  scraped  ellxnvs.  Streaks  and  spots  of  the  ''non-poisonous" 
paint  that  Trina  used  were  upon  the  walls  and  woodwork.  How 
ever,  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  next  the  window,  monstrous,  dis 
torted,  brilliant,  shining  with  a  light  of  its  own,  stood  the  dentist's  I 
sign,  the  enormous  golden  tooth,  the  tooth  of  a  Nrobdingnag. 

One  afternoon  in  September,  about  four  months  after  the  Mc- 
Teagues  had  left  their  suite,  Trina  was  at  her  work  by  the  window. 
She  had  whittled  some  half-dozen  sets  of  animals,  and  was  now 
busy  painting  them  and  making  the  arks.  Little  pots  of  "non- 


1 82  McTeague 

poisonous"  paint  stood  at  her  elbow  on  the  table,  togethe£^with_ajbox 
of  labels  that_read,  "Made  in  France."  Her  huge  clasp-knife  was 
stuck  into  the7  under  side  of  the  table.  She  was  now  occupied  solely 
with  the  brushes  and  the  glue-pot.  She  turned  the  little  figures  in 
her  ringers  with  a  wonderful  lightness  and  deftness,  painting  the 
chickens  Naples  yellow,  the  elephants  blue  gray,  the  horses  Van 
dyke  brown,  adding  a  dot  of  Chinese  white  for  the  eyes,  and  sticking 
in  the  ears  and  tail  with  a  drop  of  glue.  The  animals  once  done, 
she  put  together  and  painted  the  arks,  some  dozen  of  them,  all 
windows  and  no  doors,  each  one  opening  only  by  a  lid  which  was 
half  the  roof.  She  had  all  the  work  she  could  handle  these  days, 
for,  from  this  time  till  a  week  before  Christmas,  Uncle  Oelbermann 
could  take  as  many  "Noah's  ark  sets"  as  she  could  make. 

Suddenly  Trina  paused  in  her  work,  looking  expectantly  toward 
the  door.  McTeague  came  in. 

"Why,  Mac,"  exclaimed  Trina.  "It's  only  three  o'clock.  What 
''are  you  home  so  early  for?  Have  they  discharged  you?" 

"They've  fired  me,"  said  McTeague,  sitting  down  on  the  bed. 

"Fired  you!    What  for?" 

"I  don'  know.  Said  the  times  were  getting  hard  an'  they  had 
to  let  me  go." 

Trina  let  her  paint-stained  hands  fall  into  her  lap. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "If  we  don't  have  the  hardest  luck  of  any  two 
people  I  ever  heard  of.  What  can  you  do  now?  Is  there  another 
place  like  that  where  they  make  surgical  instruments?" 

"Huh?    No,  I  don'  know.    There's  three  more." 

"Well,  you  must  try  them  right  away.  Go  down  there  right 
now." 

"Huh?  Right  now?  No,  I'm  tired.  I'll  go  down  in  the  morn 
ing." 

"Mac,"  cried  Trina,  in  alarm,  "what  are  you  thinking  of?  You 
talk  as  though  we  were  millionaires.  You  must  go  down  this  min 
ute.  You're  losing  money  every  second  you  sit  there."  She  goaded 
the  huge  fellow  to  his  feet  again,  thrust  his  hat  into  his  hands,  and 
pushed  him  out  of  the  door,  he  obeying  the  while,  docile  and  obedient 
as  a  big  cart  horse.  He  was  on  the  stairs  when  she  came  running 
after  him. 

"Mac,  they  paid  you  off,  didn't  they,  when  they  discharged  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  must  have  some  money.    Give  it  to  me." 

The  dentist  heaved  a  shoulder  uneasily. 


McTeague  1 83 

/No,  I  don'  want  to." 

"I've  got  to  have  that  money.  There's  no  more  oil  for  the  stove, 
and  I  must  buy  some  more  meal  tickets  to-night." 

"Always  after  me  about  money,"  muttered  the  dentist;  but  he 
emptied  his  pockets  for  her,  nevertheless. 

"I — you've  taken  it  all,"  he  grumbled.  "Better  leave  me  some 
thing  for  car  fare.  It's  going  to  rain." 

"Pshaw !  You  can  walk  just  as  well  as  not.  A  big  fellow  like 
you  'fraid  of  a ,  iitjtle  walk ;  and  it  ain't  going  to  rain." 

Trina  hadiliedNagain  both  as  to  the  want  of  oil  for  the  stove  and 
the  commutation  ticket  for  +he  restaurant  But  she  knew  by  in 
stinct  that  McTeague  had  money  about  him,  and  she  did  not  intend 
to  let  it  -go  out  of  the  house.  She  listened  intently  until  she  was 
sure  .McTeague  was  gone.  Then  she  hurriedly  opened  her  trunk 
and  hid  the  money  in  the  chamois  bag  at  the  bottom. 

The  dentist  presented  himself  at  every  one  of  the  makers  of  sur 
gical  instruments  that  afternoon  and  was  promptly  turned  away  in 
each  case.  Then  it  came  on  to  rain,  a  fine,  'cold  drizzle,  that  chilled 
him  and  wet  him  to  the  bone.  He  had  no  umbrella,  and  Trina  had  > 
not  left  him  even  five  cents  for  car  fare.  He  started  to  walk  home 
through  the  rain.  It  was  a  long  way  to  Polk  Street,  as  the  last 
manufactory  he  had  visited  was  beyond  even  Folsom  Street,  and 
not  far  from  the  city  front. 

By  the  time  McTeague  reached  Polk  Street  his  teeth  were  chat 
tering  with  the  cold.  He  was  wet  from  head  to  foot.  As  he  was 
passing  Heise's  harness  shop  a  sudden  deluge  of  rain  overtook  him 
and  he  was  obliged  to  dodge  into  the  vestibule  for  shelter.  He,  who 
loved  to  be  warm,  to  sleep  and  to  be  well  fed,  was  icy  cold,  was  ex 
hausted  and  footsore  from  tramping  the  city.  He  could  look  for 
ward  to  nothing  better  than  a  badly  cooked  supper  at  the  coffee- 
joint — hot  meat  on  a  cold  plate,  half  done  suet  pudding,  muddy 
coffee,  and  bad  bread,  and  he  was  cold,  miserably  cold,  and  wet  to 
the  bone.  All  at  once  a  sudden  rage  against  Trina  took  possession 
of  him.  It  was  her  fault.  She  knew  it  was  going  to  rain,  and  she  / 
had  not.  let  him  have  a  nickel  for  car  fare — she  who  had  five  thou 
sand  dollars.  She  let  him  walk  the  streets  in  the  cold  and  in  the 
rain.  "Miser,"  he  growled  behind  his  mustache.  "Miser,  nasty 
little  old  miser.  You're  worse  than  old  Zerkow,  always  nagging 
about  money,  monev^  an4  yo^i  jfot  five  thousand  dollars.  You  got 
more,  an'  you  live, as  much  more  i7ikno^e  °^  a  room>  an<^  vou  won't 
drink  any  decent  *  Mp  stand  it  much  longer.  She 


1 84  McTeague 

knew  it  was  going  to  rain.  She  knew  it.  Didn't  I  tett  her?  And 
she  drives  me  out  of  my  own  home  in  the  rain,  for  me  to  get 
money  for  her ;  more  money,  and  she  takes  it.  She  took  that  money 
from  me  that  I  earned.  "1  wasn't  hers ;  it  was  mine,  I  earned  it- 
and  not  a  nickel  for  car  fare.  She  don't  care  if  I  get  wet  and  get  a 
cold  and  die.  No,  she  don't,  as  long  as  she's  warm  and's  got  her 
money."  He  became  more  and  more  indignant  at  the  picture  he 
made  of  himself.  "I  ain't  going  to  stand  it  much  longer,"  he  re 
peated. 

"Why,  hello,  Doc.  Is  that  you?"  exclaimed  Heise,  opening  the 
door  of  the  harness  shop  behind  him.  -"Come  in  out  of  the  wet. 
Why,  you're  soaked  through,"  he  added  as  he  and  McTeague  came 
back  into  the  shop,  that  reeked  of  oiled  leather.  "Didn't  you  have 
any  umbrella  ?  Ought  to  have  taken  a  car." 

"I  guess  so — I  guess  so,"  murmured  the  dentist,  Confused.  His? 
teeth  were  chattering. 

"You're  going  to  catch  your  death-a-cold,"  exclaimed  Heise, 
"Tell  you  what,"  he  said,  reaching  for  his  hat,  "come  in  next  door 
to  Frenna's  and  have  something  to  warm  you  up.  I'll  get  the  old 
lady  to  mind  the  shop."  He  called  Mrs.  Heise  down  from  the  floor 
above  and  took  McTeague  into  Joe  Frenna's  saloon,  which  was  two 
doors  above  his  harness  shop. 

"Whiskey  and  gum  twice,  Joe,"  said  he  to  the  barkeeper  as  he 
and  the  dentist  approached  the  bar. 

"Huh?  What?"  said  McTeague.  "Whiskey?  No,  I  can't  drink 
whiskey.  It  kind  of  disagrees  with  me." 

"Oh,  the  hell!"  returned  Heise,  easily.  "Take  it  as  medicine. 
You'll  get  your  death-a-cold  if  you  stand  round  soaked  like  that. 
Two  whiskey  and  gum,  Joe." 

McTeague  emptied  the  small  whiskey  glass  at  a  single  enormous 
gulp. 

"That's  the  way,"  said  Heise,  approvingly.  "Do  you  good." 
He  drank  his  off  slowly. 

"I'd — I'd  ask  you  to  have  a  drink  with  me,  Heise,"  said  the  den 
tist,  who  had  an  indistinct  idea  of  the  amenities  of  the  barroom, 
"only,"  he  added  shamefacedly,  "only — you  see,  I  don't  believe  I  got 
any  change/'  His  anger  against  Trina,  heated  by  the  whiskey  he 
had  drunk,  flamed  up  afresh.  What  a  humiliating  position  for 
Trina  to  place  him  in,  not  to  leave  him  thp  ntice  of  a  drink  with  a 
friend,  she  who  had  five  thousaj*6ney.  Give  it 

"Sha!     That's  all  right^roer  uneasily.  '-e,  nibbling  on  a 


McTeague  185 

grain  of  coffee.     "Want  another?    Hey?    This  is  my  treat.     Two 
more  of  the  same,  Joe." 

McTeague  hesitated.  It  was  lamentably  true  that  whiskey  did 
not  agree  with  him ;  he  knew  it  well  enough.  However,  by  this  time 
he  felt  very  comfortably  warm  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  The  blood 
was  beginning  to  circulate  in  his  chilled  finger-tips  and  in  his 
soggy,  wet  feet.  He  had  had  a  hard  day  of  it ;  in  fact,  the  last  week, 
the  last  month,  the  last  three  or  four  months,  had  been  hard.  He 
deserved  a  little  consolation.  Nor  could  Trina  object  to  this.  It 
wasn't  costing  a  cent.  He  drank  again  with  Heise. 

"Get  up  here  to  the  stove  and  warm  yourself,"  urged  Heise, 
drawing  up  a  couple  of  chairs  and  cocking  his  feet  upon  the  guard. 
The  two  fell  to  talking  while  McTeague's  draggled  coat  and  trou 
sers  smoked. 

"What  a  dirty  turn  that  was  that  Marcus  Schouler  did  you!" 
said  Heise,  wagging  his  head.  "You  ought  to  have  fought  that, 
Doc,  sure.  You'd  been  practicing  too  long."  They  discussed  this 
question  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  and  then  Heise  rose. 

"Well,  this  ain't  earning  any  money.  I  got  to  get  back  to  the 
shop."  'McTeague  got  up  as  well,  and  the  pair  started  for  the  door. 
Just  as  they  were  going  out  Ryer  met  them. 

"Hello,  hello,"  he  cried.     "Lord,  what  a  wet  day!     You  two 
are  going  the  wrong  way.    You're  going  to  have  a  drink  with  me.  j 
Three  whiskey  punches,  Joe." 

"No,  no,"  answered  McTeague,  shaking  his  head.  "Pm  going 
back  home.  I've  had  two  glasses  of  whiskey  already." 

"Sha!"  cried  Heise,  catching  his  arm.  "A  strapping  big  chap 
like  you  ain't  afraid  of  a  little  whiskey." 

"Well,  I — I — I  got  to  go  right  afterward,"  protested  Mc 
Teague. 

About  half  an  hour  after  the  dentist  had  left  to  go  down  town, 
Maria  Macapa  had  come  in  to  see  Trina.  Occasionally  Maria 
dropped  in  on  Trina  in  this  fashion  and  spent  an  hour  or  so  chat 
ting  with  her  while  she  worked.  At  first  Trina  had  been  inclined  to 
resent  these  intrusions  of  the  Mexican  woman,  but  of  late  she  had 
begun  to  tolerate  them.  Her  day  was  long  and  cheerless  at  the 
best,  and  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to.  Trina  even  fancied  that  old 
Miss  Baker  had  come  to  be  less  cordial  since  their  misfortune. 
Maria  retailed  to  her  all  the  gossip  of  the  flat  and  the  neighbor 
hood,  and,  which  was  much  more  interesting,  told  her  of  her  troubles 
with  Zerkow. 


1 86  McTeague 

Trina  said  to  herself  that  Maria  was  common  and  vulgar,  but 
one  had  to  have  some  diversion,  and  Trina  could  talk  and  listen 
without  interrupting  her  work.  On  this  particular  occasion  Maria 
was  much  excited  over  Zerkow's  demeanor  of  late. 

"He's  gettun  worse  an'  worse,"  she  informed  Trina  as  she  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  chin  in  her  hand.  "He  says  he  knows  I 
got  the  dishes  and  am  hidun  them  from  him.  The  other  day  I 
thought  he'd  gone  off  with  his  wagon,  and  I  was  doin'  a  bit  of  ir'n- 
ing,  an'  by  an'  by  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  him  peeping  at  me  through 
the  crack  of  the  door.  I  never  let  on  that  I  saw  him,  and,  honest,  he 
stayed  there  over  two  hours,  watchun  everything  I  did.  I  could 
just  feel  his  eyes  on  the  back  of  my  neck  all  the  time.  Last  Sun 
day  he  took  down  part  of  the  wall,  'cause  he  said  he'd  seen  me 
making  figures  on  it.  Well,  I  was,  but  it  was  just  the  wash  list. 
All  the  time  he  says  he'll  kill  me  if  I  don't  tell !" 

"Why,  what  do  you  stay  with  him  for  ?"  exclaimed  Trina.  "I'd 
be  deathly  'fraid  of  a  man  like  that;  and  he  did  take  a  knife  to 
you  once." 

"Hoh !  he  won't  kill  me,  never  fear.  If  he'd  kill  me  he'd  never 
know  where  the  dishes  were;  that's -what  he  thinks." 

"But  I  can't  understand,  Maria;  you  told  him  about  those  gold 
dishes  yourself." 

"Never,  never!  I  never  saw  such  a  lot  of  crazv  folks  as  you 
are." 

"But  you  say  he  hits  you  sometimes." 

"Ah!"  said  Maria,  tossing  her  head  scornfully,  "I  ain't  afraid 
of  him.  He  takes  his  horsewhip  to  me  now  and  then,  but  I  can 
always  manage.  I  say,  'If  you  touch  me  with  that,  then  III  never 
tell  you.'  Just  pretending,  you  know,  and  he  drops  it  as  though  it 
was  red  hot.  Say,  'Mrs.  McTeague,  have  you  got  any  tea?  Let's 
make  a  cup  of  tea  over  the  stove." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Trina,  with  niggardly  apprehension;  "no,  I 
haven't  got  a  bit  of  tea."  Trina's  stinginess  had  increased  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  had  gone  beyond  the  mere  hoarding  of  money.  She 
grudged  even  the  food  that  she  and  McTeague  ate,  and  even  brought 
away  half  loaves  of  bread,  lumps  of  sugar,  and  frtrit  from  the  car 
conductors'  coffee-joint.  She  hid  these  ptlferings  away  on  the  shelf 
by  the  window,  and  often  managed  to  make  a  very  creditable  lunch 
from  them,  enjoying  the  meal  with  the  greater  relish  because  it  cost 
her  nothing. 

"No,  Maria,  I  haven't  got  a  bit  of  tea,"  she  said,  shaking  her 


McTeague  187 

head  decisively.    "Hark,  ain't  that  Mac  ?"  she  added,  her  chin  in  the 
air.     'That's  his  step,  sure." 

''Well,  I'm  going  to  skip,"  said  Maria.  She  left  hurriedly,  pass 
ing  the  dentist  in  the  hall  just  outside  the  door. 

"Well  ?"  said  Trina  interrogatively  as  her  husband  entered.  Mc 
Teague  did  not  answer.  He  hung  his  hat  on  the  hook  behind  the 
door  and  dropped  heavily  into  a  chair. 

"Well?"  asked  Trina,  anxiously,  "how  did  you  make  out, 
Mac?" 

Still  the  dentist  pretended  not  to  hear,  scowling  fiercely  at  his 
muddy  boots. 

"Tell  me,  Mac,  I  want  to  know.  Did  you  get  a  place?  Did 
you  get  caught  in  the  rain?" 

"Did  I?  Did  I?"  cried  the  dentist,  sharply,  an  alacrity  in  his 
manner  and  voice  that  Trina  had  never  observed  before. 

"Look  at  me.  Look  at  me/5  he  went  on,  speaking  with  an  un 
wonted  rapidity,  his  wits  sharp,  his  ideas  succeeding  each  other 
quickly.  "Look  at  me,  drenched  through,  shivering  cold.  I've 
walked  the  city  over.  Caught  in  the  rain !  Yes,  I  guess  I  did  get 
caught  in  the  rain,  and  it  ain't  your  fault  I  didn't  catch  my  death-a- 
cold ;  wouldn't  even  let  me  have  a  nickel  for  car  fare." 

"But,  Mac,"  protested  Trina,  "I  didn't  know  it  was  going  to 
rain." 

The  dentist  put  back  his  head  and  laughed  scornfully.  His  face 
was  very  red,  and  his  small  eyes  twinkled.  "Hoh!  no,  you  didn't 
know  it  was  going  to  rain.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly  angry  again.  "Oh,  you're  a  daisy,  you  are.  Think  I'm 
going  to  put  up  with  your  foolishness  all  the  time  ?  Who's  the  boss, 
you  or  I?" 

"Why,  Mac,  I  never  saw  you  this  way  before.  You  talk  like  a 
different  man." 

"Well,  I  am  a  different  man,"  retorted  the  dentist,  savagely. 
"You  can't  make  small  of  me  always." 

"Well,  never  mind  that.  You  know  I'm  not  trying  to  make  small 
of  vou.  But  never  mind  that.  Did  you  get  a  place?" 

"Give  me  my  money,"  exclaimed  McTeague,  jumping  up  briskly. 
There  was  an  activity,  a  positive  nimbleness  about  the  huge  blond 
giant  that  had  never  been  his  before;  also  his  stupidity,  the  slug 
gishness  of  his  brain,  seemed  to  be  unusually  stimulated. 

Give  me  my  money,  the  money  I  gave  you  as  I  was  going 
away." 


1 88  McTeague 

"I  can't,"  exclaimed  Trina.  "I  paid  the  grocer's  bill  with  it 
while  you  were  gone." 

"Don't  believe  you." 

"Truly,  truly,  Mac.  Do  you  think  I'd  lie  to  you  ?  Do  you  think 
I'd  lower  myself  to  do  that?" 

"Well,  the  next  time  I  earn  any  money  I'll  keep  it  myself." 

"But  tell  me,  Mac,  did  you  get  a  place?" 

McTeague  turned  his  back  on  her. 

"Tell  me,  Mac,  please,  did  you?" 

The  dentist  jumped  up  and  thrust  his  face  close  to  hers,  his 
heavy  jaw  protruding,  his  little  eyes  twinkling  meanly. 

"No,"  he  shouted.     "No,  no,  no.    Do  you  hear?    No." 

Trina  cowered  before  him.  Then  suddenly  she  began  to  sob 
aloud,  weeping  partly  at  his  strange  brutality,  partly  at  the  disap 
pointment  of  his  failure  to  find  employment. 

McTeague  cast  a  contemptuous  glance  about  him,  a  glance  that 
embraced  the  dingy,  cheerless  room,  the  rain  streaming  down  the 
panes  of  the  one  window,  and  the  figure  of  his  weeping  wife. 

"Oh,  ain't  this  all  fine?"  he  exclaimed.     "Ain't  it  lovely?" 

"It's  not  my  fault/'  sobbed  Trina. 

"It  is,  too,"  vociferated  McTeague.  "It  is,  too.  We  could  live 
like  Christians  and  decent  people  if  you  wanted  to.  You  got  more'n 
five  thousand  dollars,  and  you're  so  damned  stingy  that  you'd  rather 
live  in  a  rat  hole — and  make  me  live  there,  too — before  you'd  part 
with  a  nickel  of  it.  I  tell  you  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  whole 
business." 

An  allusion  to  her  lottery  money  never  failed  to  rouse  Trina. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  this  much,  too,"  she  cried,  winking  back  the 
tears.  "Now  that  you're  out  of  a  job,  we  can't  afford  even  to  live 
in  your  rat  hole,  as  you  call  it.  We've  got  to  find  a  cheaper  place 
than  this  even." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  dentist,  purple  with  rage.  "What,  get 
into  a  worse  hole  in  the  wall  than  this  ?  Well,  we'll  see  if  we  will. 
We'll  just  see  about  that.  You're  going  to  do  just  as  I  tell  you 
after  this,  Trina  McTeague,"  and  once  more  he  thrust  his  face  close 
to  hers. 

"/  know  what's  the  matter,"  cried  Trina,  with  a  half  sob; 
"I  know,  I  can  smell  it  on  your  breath.  You've  been  drinking 
whiskey." 

"Yes,  I've  been  drinking  whiskey,"  retorted  her  husband.  "I've 
been  drinking  whiskey.  Have  you  got  anything  to  say  about  it? 


McTeague  189 

Ah,  yes,  you're  right,  I've  been  drinking  whiskey.  What  have  you 
got  to  say  about  my  drinking  whiskey?  Let's  hear  it." 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  sobbed  Trina,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  McTeague  caught  her  wrists  in  one  palm  and  pulled  them 
down.  Trina's  pale  face  was  streaming  with  tears ;  her  long,  nar 
row  blue  eyes  were  swimming;  her  adorable  little  chin  upraised  and 
quivering. 

"Let's  hear  what  you  got  to  say,"  exclaimed  McTeague. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Trina,  between  her  sobs. 

"Then  stop  that  noise.  Stop  it,  do  you  hear  me?  Stop  it."  He 
threw  up  his  open  hand  threateningly.  "Stop!"  he  exclaimed. 

Trina  looked  at  him  fearfully,  half  blinded  with  weeping.  Her 
husband's  thick  mane  of  yellow  hair  was  disordered  and  rumpled 
upon  his  great  square-cut  head;  his  big  red  ears  were  redder  than 
ever;  his  face  was  purple;  the  thick  eyebrows  were  knotted  over 
the  small,  twinkling  eyes;  the  heavy  yellow  mustache,  that  smelled 
of  alcohol,  drooped  over  the  massive,  protruding  chin,  salient,  like 
that  of  the  carnivora;  the  veins  were  swollen  and  throbbing  on  his 
thick  red  neck;  while  over  her  head  Trina  saw  his  upraised  palm, 
calloused,  enormous. 

"Stop!"  he  exclaimed.  And  Trina,  watching  fearfully,  saw  the 
palm  suddenly  contract  into  a  fist,  a  fist  that  was  hard  as  a  wooden 
mallet,  the  fist  of  the  old-time  car-boy.  And  then  her  ancient  terror 
of  him,  the  intuitive  fear  of  the  male,  leaped  to  life  again.  She 
was  afraid  of  him.  Every  nerve  of  her  quailed  and  shrank  from  him. 
She  choked  back  her  sobs,  catching  her  breath. 

"There,"  growled  the  dentist,  releasing  her,  "that's  more  like. 
Now,"  he  went  on,  fixing  her  with  his  little  eyes,  "now  listen  to  me. 
I'm  beat  out.  I've  walked  the  city  over — ten  miles,  I  guess — an'  I'm 
going  to  bed,  an'  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered.  You  understand  ?  I 
want  to  be  let  alone."  Trina  was  silent. 

"Do  you  hear?"  he  snarled. 

"Yes,  Mac." 

The  dentist  took  off  his  coat,  his  collar  and  necktie,  unbuttoned 
his  vest,  and  slipped  his  heavy-soled  boots  from  his  big  feet.  Then 
he  stretched  himself  upon  the  bed  and  rolled  over  toward  the  wall. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  sound  of  his  snoring  filled  the  room. 

Trina  craned  her  neck  and  looked  at  her  husband  over  the  foot 
board  of  the  bed.  She  saw  his  red,  congested  face ;  the  huge  mouth 
wide  open;  his  unclean  shirt,  with  its  frayed  wristbands;  and  his 
huge  feet  incased  in  thick  woolen  socks.  Then  her  grief  and  the 


190  McTeague 

sense  of  her  unhappiness  returned  more  poignant  than  ever.  She 
stretched  her  arms  out  in  front  of  her  on  her  work-table,  and,  burying 
her  face  in  them,  cried  and  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

The  rain  continued.  The  panes  of  the  single  window  ran  with 
sheets  of  water ;  the  eaves  dripped  incessantly.  It  grew  darker.  The 
tiny,  grimy  room,  full  of  the  smells  of  cooking  and  of  "non-poison 
ous"  paint,  took  on  an  aspect  of  desolation  and  cheerlessness  lament 
able  beyond  words.  The  canary  in  its  little  gilt  prison  chittered 
feebly  from  time  to  time.  Sprawled  at  full  length  upon  the  bed, 
the  dentist  snored  and  snored,  stupefied,  inert,  his  legs  wide  apart, 
his  hands  lying  palm  upward  at  his  sides. 

At  last  Trina  raised  her  head,  with  a  long,  trembling  breath. 
She  rose,  and  going  over  to  the  washstand,  poured  some  water  from 
the  pitcher  into  the  basin,  and  washed  her  face  and  swollen  eyelids, 
and  rearranged  her  hair.  Suddenly,  as  she  was  about  to  return  to 
her  work,  she  was  struck  with  an  idea. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  wonder  where  he  got  the 
money  to  buy  his  whiskey."  She  searched  the  pockets  of  his  coat, 
which  he  had  flung  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  even  came  up  to 
him  as  he  lay  upon  the  bed  and  went  through  the  pockets  of  his 
vest  and  trousers.  She  found  nothing. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "I  wonder  if  he's  got  any  money 
he  don't  tell  me  about.  I'll  have  to  look  out  for  that." 


XVI 

A  WEEK  passed,  then  a  fortnight,  then  a  month.  It  was  a 
month  of  the  greatest  anxiety  and  unquietude  forTrmsu  McTeague 
was  out  of  a  job,  could  find  nothing  to  do ;  and  Trina,  who  saw  the 
impossibility  of  saving  as  much  money  as  usual  out  of  her  earnings 
under  the  present  conditions,  was  on  the  lookout  for  cheaper  quar 
ters.  In  spite  of  his  outcries  and  sulky  resistance  Trina  had  in 
duced  her  husband  to  consent  to  such  a  move,  bewildering  him  with 
a  torrent  of  phrases  and  marvelous  columns  of  figures  by  which  she 
proved  conclusively  that  they  were  in  a  condition  but  one  remove 
from  downright  destitution. 

The  dentist  continued  idle.  Since  his  ill  success  with  the 
manufacturers  of  surgical  instruments  he  had  made  but  two  at 
tempts  to  secure  a  job.  Trina  had  gone  to  see  Uncle  Oelbermann 


McTeague  191 

and  had  obtained  for  McTeague  a  position  in  the  shipping  depart 
ment  of  the  wholesale  toy  store.  However,  it  was  a  position  that 
involved  a  certain  amount  of  ciphering,  and  McTeague  had  been 
obliged  to  throw  it  up  in  two  days. 

Then  for  a  time  they  had  entertained  a  wild  idea  that  a  place  on 
the  police  force  could  be  secured  for  McTeague.  He  could  pass  the 
physical  examination  with  flying  colors,  and  Ryer,  who  had  become 
the  secretary  of  the  Polk  Street  Improvement  Club,  promised  the 
requisite  political  "pull."  If  McTeague  had  shown  a  certain  energy 
in  the  matter  the  attempt  might  have  been  successful;  but  he  was 
too  stupid,  or  of  late  had  become  too  listless  to  exert  himself  greatly, 
and  the  affair  resulted  only  in  a  violent  quarrel  with  Ryer. 

McTeague  had  lost  Jiis_ambitiQtTL    He  di 


situation.  All  he  wanted  was  a  warm  place  to  sleep  and  three  good 
meals  a  day.  At  the  first  —  at  the  very  first  —  he  had  chafed  at  his 
idleness  and  had  spent  the  days  with  his  wife  in  their  one  narrow 
room,  walking  back  and  forth  with  the  restlessness  of  a  caged  brute, 
or  sitting  motionless  for  hours,  watching  Trina  at  her  work,  feeling 
a  dull  glow  of  shame  at  the  idea  that  she  was  supporting  him.  This 
feeling  had  worn  off  quickly,  however.  Trina's  work  was  only 
hard  when  she  chose  to  make  it  so,  and  as  a  rule  she  supported 
their  misfortunes  with  a  silent  fortitude. 

Then,  wearied  at  his  inaction  and  feeling  the  need  of  movement 
and  exercise,  McTeague  would  light  his  pipe  and  take  a  turn  upon 
the  great  avenue  one  block  above  Polk  Street.  A  gang  of  laborers 
were  digging  the  foundations  for  a  large  brown-stone  house,  and 
McTeague  found  interest  and  amusement  in  leaning  over  the  barrier 
that  surrounded  the  excavations  and  watching  the  progress  of  the 
work.  He  came  to  see  it  every  afternoon  ;  by  and  by  he  even  got  to 
know  the  foreman  who  superintended  the  job,  and  the  two  had  long 
talks  together.  Then  McTeague  would  return  to  Polk  Street  and 
find  Heise  in  the  back  room  of  the  harness  shop,  and  occasionally 
the  day  ended  with  some  half  dozen  drinks  of  whiskey  at  Joe 
Frenna's  saloon. 

It  was  curious  to  note  the  effect  of  the  alcohol  upon  the  dentist.  \ 
It  did  not  make  him  drunk,  it  made  him  vicious.       So  far  from/ 
being  stupefied,  he  became,  after  the  fourth  glass,  active,  alert,  quick 
witted,  even  talkative  ;  a  certain  wickedness  stirred  in  him  then  ;  he 
was  intractable,  mean;  and  when  he  had  drunk  a  little  more  heavily 
than  usual,  he  found  a  certain  pleasure  in  annoying  arid  exasperat-  .. 
ing  Trina,  even  in  abusing  and  hurting  her. 


McTeague 

'       It  had  begun  on  the  evening  of  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  Heise  r 
had  taken  McTeague  out  to  dinner  with  him.     The  dentist  on  this 
occasion  had  drunk  very  freely.     He  and  Heise  had  returned  to 
Polk  Street  toward  ten  o'clock,  and  Heise  at  once  suggested  a  couple 
of  drinks  at  Frenna's. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  McTeague.  "Drinks,  that's  the  word. 
I'll  go  home  and  get  some  money  and  meet  you  at  Joe's." 

Trina  was  awakened  by  her  husband  pinching  her  arm. 

"Oh,  Mac,"  she  cried,  jumping  up  in  bed  with  a  little  scream, 
"how  you  hurt !  Oh,  that  hurt  me  dreadfully." 

"Give  me  a  little  money,"  answered  the  dentist,  grinning,  and 
pinching  her  again. 

"I  haven't  a  cent.  There's  not  a — oh,  Mac,  will  you  stop?  I 
won't  have  you  pinch  me  that  way." 

"Hurry  up,"  answered  her  husband,  calmly,  nipping  the  flesh 
of  her  shoulder  between  his  thumb  and  ringer.  "Heise's  waiting 
for  me/'  Trina  wrenched  from  him  with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath, 
frowning  with  pain,  and  caressing  her  shoulder. 

"Mac,  you've  no  idea  how  that  hurts.    Mac,  stop!" 

"Give  me  some  money,  then." 

In  the  end  Trina  had  to  comply.  She  gave  him  half  a  dollar 
from  her  dress  pocket,  protesting  that  it  was  the  only  piece  of  money 
she  had. 

"One  more,  just  for  luck,"  said  McTeague,  pinching  her  again; 
"and  another." 

"How  can  you — how  can  you  hurt  a  woman  so !"  exclaimed 
Trina,  beginning  to  cry  with  the  pain. 

"Ah,  now,  cry"  retorted  the  dentist.  "That's  right,  cry.  I 
never  saw  such  a  little  fool."  He  went  out,  slamming  the  door  in 
disgust. 

But  McTeague  never  became  a  drunkard  in  the  generally  re 
ceived  sense  of  the  ferm.  He  did  riot'"o!fink  to  excess  more  than 
two  or  three  times  in  a  month,  and  never  upon  any  occasion  did  he 
become  maudlin  or  staggering.  Perhaps  his  nerves  were  naturally 
too  dull  to  admit  of  any  excitation;  perhaps  he  did  not  really  care 
for  the  whiskey,  and  only  drank  because  Heise  and  the  other  men 
at  Frenna's  did.  Trina  could  often  reproach  him  with  drinking  too 
much;  she  never  could  say  that  .he  was  drunk.  The  alcohol  had  Jts 
effect  for  all  that. ...  It  roused  the  man,  or  rather""the  brute  in  the 
man,  and  now  not  only  roused  it,  but  goaded  it  to  evil.  McTeague's 
nature  changed.  It  was  not  only  the  alcohol,  it  was  idleness  and  a 


McTeague  193 

general  throwing  off  of  the  good  influence  his  wife  had  had  over 
him  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity.  ^McTeague  disliked  Trina. 
She  was  a  perpetual  irritation  to  him.  She  annoyed  hirrP5e"cauBe 
she  was  so  small,  so  prettily  made,  so  invariably  correct  and  pre- 
cise.  Her  avarice  incessantly  harassed  him.  Her  industry  was  a 
constant  reproach  to  him.  She  seemed  to  flaunt  her  work  defiantly 
in  his  face.  It  was  the  red  flag  in  the  eyes  of  the  bull.  One  time 
when  he  had  just  come  back  from  Frenna's  and  had  been  sitting  in 
the  chair  near  her,  silently  watching  her  at  her  work,  he  exclaimed 
all  of  a  sudden : 

"Stop  working.  Stop  it,  I  tell  you.  Put  'em  away.  Put  'em  all 
away,  or  I'll  pinch _you." 

"But  why — why?"  Trina  protested. 

The  dentist  cuffed  her__ears.  "I  won't  have  you  work."  He 
took  her  knife  andlief^paint-pots  away,  and  made  her  sit  idly  in  the 
window  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

It  was,  however,  only  when  his  wits  had  been  stirred  with  alcohol 
that  the  dentist  was  brutal  to  his  wife.  At  other  times,  say  three 
weeks  of  every  month,  she  was  merely  an  incumbrance  to  him. 
They  often  quarreled  about  Tina's  money,  her  savings.  The  den 
tist  was  bent  upon  having  at  least  a  part  of  them.  What  he  would 
do  with  the  money  once  he  had  it,  he  did  not  precisely  know.  He 
would  spend  it  in  royal  fashion,  no  doubt,  feasting  continually,  buy 
ing  himself  wonderful  clothes.  The  miner's  idea  of  money  quickly 
gained  and  lavishly  squandered  persisted  in  his  mind.  As  for  TrinaT 
tHe~  more  her  husband  stormed,  the  tighter  she  drew  the  strings 
of  the  little  chamois-skin  bag  that  she  hid  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk 
underneath  her  bridal  dress.  Her  five  thousand  dollars  invested  in 
Uncle  Oelbermann's  business  was  a  glittering,  splendid  dream  which 
came  to  her  almost  every  hour  of  the  day  as  a  solace  and  a  com 
pensation  for  all  her  unhappiness. 

At  times,  when  she  knew  that  McTeague  was  far  from  home, 
she  would  lock  her  door,  open  her  trunk,  and  pile  all  her  little  hoard 
on  her  table.  By  now  it  was  four  hundred  and  seven  ^dollars  and 
fifty  cents.  Trina  would  play  with  this  money  by  the  hour,  piling 
it,  and  repiling  it,  or  gathering  IT  all  into  one  heap,  and  drawing 
back  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room  to  note  the  effect,  her  head 
on  one  side.  She  polished  the  gold  pieces  with  a  mixture  of  soap 
and  ashes  until  they  shone,  wiping  them  carefully  on  her  apron.  Or, 
again,  she  would  draw  the  heap  lovingly  toward  her  and  bury  her 
face  in  it,  delighted  at  the  smell  of  it  and  the  feel  of  the  smooth, 
I — III — NORRIS 


194  McTeague 

/cool  metal  on  her  cheeks.  She  even  put  the  smaller  gold  pieces  in 
her  mouth,  and  jingled  them  there.  She  loved  her  money  with  an 
intensity  that  she  could  hardly  express.  She  would  plunge  her 
small  ringers  into  the  pile  with  little  murmurs  of  affection,  her  long, 
narrow  eyes  half  closed  and  shining,  her  breath  coming  in  long  sighs. 

"Ah,  the  dear  money,  the  dear  money,"  she  would  whisper.  "I 
love  you  so!  All  mine,  every  penny  of  it.  No  one  shall  ever,  ever 
get  you.  How  I've  worked  for  you!  How  I've  slaved  and  saved 
for  you !  And  I'm  going  to  get  more ;  I'm  going  to  get  more,  more, 
more;  a  little  every  day." 

She  was  still  looking  for  cheaper  quarters.  Whenever  she 
could  spare  a  moment  from  her  work,  she  would  put  on  her  hat  and 
range  up  and  down  the  entire  neighborhood  from  Sutter  to  Sacra 
mento  Streets,  going  into  all  the  alleys  and  by-streets,  her  head  in 
the  air,  looking  for  the  "Rooms-to-let"  sign.  But  she  was  in  de 
spair.  All  the  cheaper  tenements  were  occupied.  She  could  find 
no  room  more  reasonable  than  the  one  she  and  the  dentist  now 
occupied. 

As  time  went  on,  McTeague's  idleness  became  habitual.  He 
drank  no  more  whiskey  than  at  first,  but  his  dislike  for  Triria  in- 
creased-with  every  day  of  their  poverty,  with  every  day  of  Trina's 
persistent  stinginess.  At  times — fortunately  rare — he  was  more 
than  ever  brutal  to  her.  He  would  box  her  ears  or  hit  her  a  great 
blow  with  the  back  of  a  hair-brush,  or  even  with  his  closed  fist. 
His  old-time  affection  for  his  "little  woman,"  unable  to  stand  the 
test  of  privation,  had  lapsed  by  degrees,  and  what  little  of  it  was  left 
was  changed,  distorted,  and  made  monstrous  by  the-alcohol. 

The  people  about  the  house  and  the  clerks  at  the  provision  stores 
often  remarked  that  Trina's  finger-tips  were  swollen  and  the  nails 
purple  as  though  they  had  been  shut  in  a  door.  Indeed,  this  was 
the  explanation  she  gave.  The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Mc 
Teague,  when  he  had  been  drinkmg2_use4_to  bite  thejmJ_.cj^n^Hmg- 
^n^grmdrn^tEem^jtri  his  immense  teeth,  alway^jngejiious  enough 
to  remember  which  were  the  sorest.  Sbmetimes~"he  extorted  money 
from  her  1By~lriis~means7~TOf "  as  often  as  not  he  did'  it  for  his  own 
satisfaction. 

And  in  some  strange,  inexplicable  way  this  brutality  made  Trina 
all  the  more  affectionate;  aroused  in  her  a  morbid,  unwholesome 
l°ve  of  sujjmi&sion,  a  ^strange^__mmatural_  pleasure  in  yielding,  in 
v  surrendering  herself  to  the  will  of  an  irresistible,  virile  power. 

Trina's  emotions  had  narrowed  with  the  narrowing  of  her  daily 


McTeague  195 

<\ 

life.  They  reduced  themselves  at  last  to  but  two,  her  passion  for  \ 
her  money  and  her  perverted  love  for  her  husband  when  he  wasj 
brutal.  She  was  a  strange  woman  during  these  days. 

Trina  had  come  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms  with  Maria  Macapa, 
and  in  the  end  the  dentist's  wife  and  the  maid  of  all  work  became 
great  friends.  Maria  was  constantly  in  and  out  of  Trina's  room, 
and,  whenever  she  could,  Trina  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and 
returned  Maria's  calls.  Trina  could  reach  Zerkow's  dirty  house  with 
out  going  into  the  street.  The  back  yard  of  the  flat  had  a  gate  that 
opened  into  a  little  inclosure  where  Zerkow  kept  his  decrepit  horse 
and  ramshackle  wagon,  and  from  thence  Trina  could  enter  directly 
into  Maria's  kitchen.  Trina  made  long  visits  to  Maria  during  the 
morning  in  her  dressing-gown  and  curl  papers,  and  the  two  talked 
at  great  length  over  a  cup  of  tea  served  on  the  edge  of  the  sink  or  a 
corner  of  the  laundry  table.  The  talk  was  all  of  their  husbands 
and  of  what  to  do  when  they  came  home  in  aggressive  moods. 

"You  never  ought  to  fight  um,"  advised  Maria.  "It  only  makes 
um  worse.  Just  hump  your  back,  and  it's  soonest  over." 

They  told  each  other  of  their  husbands'  brutalities,  taking  a 
strange  sort  of  pride  in  recounting  some  particularly  savage  blow, 
each  trying  to  make  out  that  her  own  husband  was  the  most  cruel. 
They  critically  compared  each  other's  bruises,  each  one  glad  when 
she  could  exhibit  the  worst.  They  exaggerated,  they  invented  de 
tails,  and,  as  if  proud  of  their  beatings,  as  if  glorying  in  their  hus 
bands'  mishandling,  lied  to  each  other,  magnifying  their  own  mal 
treatment.  They  had  long  and  excited  arguments  as  to  which 
were  the  most  effective  means  of  punishment,  the  rope's  ends  and 
cart  whips  such  as  Zerkow  used,  or  the  fists  and  backs  of  hair 
brushes  affected  by  McTeague.  Maria  contended  that  the  lash  of 
the  whip  hurt  the  most;  Trina,  that  the  butt  did  the  most  injury. 

Maria  showed  Trina  the  holes  in  the  walls  and  the  loosened 
boards  in  the  flooring  where  Zerkow  had  been  searching  for  the  gold 
plate.  Of  late  he  had  been  digging  in  the  back  yard  and  had  ran 
sacked  the  hay  in  his  horse-shed  for  the  concealed  leather  chest  he 
imagined  he  would  find.  But  he  was  becoming  impatient,  evidently. 

"The  way  he  goes  on,"  Maria  told  Trina,  "is  somethun  dreadful. 
He's  gettun  regularly  sick  with  it — got  a  fever  every  night — don't 
sleep,  and  when  he  does,  talks  to  himself.  Says  'More'n  a  hundred 
pieces,  an'  every  one  of  'em  gold.  More'n  a  hundred  pieces,  an' 
every  one  of  'em  gold.'  Then  he'll  whale  me  with  his  whip,  and 
shout,  'You  know  wherj  it  is.  Tell  me,  tell  me,  you  swine,  or  I'll  do 


McTeague 

for  you.'  An'  then  he'll  get  down  on  his  knees  and  whimper,  and 
beg  me  to  tell  um  where  I've  hid  it.  He's  just  gone  plum  crazy. 
Sometimes  he  has  regular  fits,  he  gets  so  mad,  and  rolls  on  the  floor 
and  scratches  himself." 

One  morning  in  November,  about  ten  o'clock,  Trina  pasted  a 
"Made  in  France"  label  on  the  bottom  of  a  Noah's  ark,  and  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  She  had  just  finished  a 
large  Christmas  order  for  Uncle  Oelbermann,  and  there  was  nothing 
else  she  could  do  that  morning.  The  bed  had  not  yet  been  made,  nor 
had  the  breakfast  things  been  washed.  Trina  hesitated  for  mo 
ment,  then  put  her  chin  in  the  air  indifferently. 

"Bah!"  she  said,  "let  them  go  till  this  afternoon.  I  don't  care 
when  the  room  is  put  to  rights,  and  I  know  Mac  don't."  She  deter 
mined  that  instead  of  making  the  bed  or  washing  the  dishes  she 
would  go  and  call  on  Miss  Baker  on  the  floor  below.  The  little 
dressmaker  might  ask  her  to  stay  to  lunch,  and  that  would  be 
something  saved,  as  the  dentist  had  announced  his  intention 
that  morning  of  taking  a  long  walk  out  to  the  Presidio  to  be 
gone  all  day. 

But  Trina  rapped  on  Miss  Baker's  door  in  vain  that  morning. 
She  was  out.  Perhaps  she  was  gone  to  the  florist's  to  buy  some 
geranium  seeds.  However,  Old  Grannis's  door  stood  a  little  ajar, 
and  on  hearing  Trina  at  Miss  Baker's  room,  the  old  Englishman 
came  out  into  the  hall. 

"She's  gone  out,"  he  said  uncertainly,  and  in  a  half  whisper, 
"went  out  about  half  an  hour  ago.  I — I  think  she  went  to  the  drug 
store  to  get  some  wafers  for  the  goldfish." 

"Don't  you  go  to  your  dog  hospital  any  more,  Mister  Grannis?" 
said  Trina,  leaning  against  the  balustrade  in  the  hall,  willing  to  talk 
a  moment. 

Old  Grannis  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  room,  in  his  carpet  slip 
pers  and  faded  corduroy  jacket  that  he  wore  when  at  home. 

"Why — why,"  he  said,  hesitating,  tapping  his  chin  thoughtfully. 
"You  see,  I'm  thinking  of  giving  up  the  little  hospital." 

"Giving  it  up?" 

"You  see,  the  people  at  the  book  store  where  I  buy  my  pamphlets 
have  found  out — I  told  them  of  my  contrivance  for  binding  books, 
and  one  of  the  members  of  the  firm  came  up  to  look  at  it.  He  offered 
me  quite  a  sum  if  I  would  sell  him  the  right  of  it — the — the  patent 
of  it — quite  a  sum.  In  fact — in  fact — yes,  quite  a  sum,  quite."  He 
rubbed  his  chin  tremulously  and  looked  abont  him  on  the  floor. 


McTeague  197 

"Why,  isn't  that  fine?"  said  Trina,  good-naturedly.  "I'm  very 
glad,  Mister  Grannis.  Is  it  a  good  price?" 

"Quite  a  sum — quite.  In  fact,  I  never  dreamed  of  having  so 
much  money." 

"Now,  see  here,  Mister  Grannis,"  said  Trina  decisively,  "I  want 
to  give  you  a  good  piece  of  advice.  Here  are  you  and  Miss  Baker — 
The  old  Englishman  started  nervously — "you  and  Miss  Baker,  that 
have  been  in  love  with  each  other  for — " 

"Oh,  Mrs.  McTeague,  that  subject — if  you  would,  please — Miss 
Baker  is  such  an  estimable  lady." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Trina.  "You're  in  love  with  each  other, 
and  the  whole  flat  knows  it;  and  you  two  have  been  living  here 
side  by  side  year  in  and  year  out,  and  you've  never  said  a  word 
to  each  other.  It's  all  nonsense.  Now,  I  want  you  should  go  right 
in  and  speak  to  her  just  as  soon  as  she  comes  home,  and  say  you've 
come  into  money  and  you  want  her  to  marry  you." 

"Impossible — impossible!"  exclaimed  the  old  Englishman, 
alarmed  and  perturbed.  "It's  quite  out  of  the  question.  I  wouldn't 
presume." 

"Well,  do  you  love  her,  or  not?" 

"Really,  Mrs.  McTeague,  I — I — you  must  excuse  me.  It's  a 
matter  so  personal — so — I — oh,  yes,  I  love  her.  Oh,  yes,  indeed," 
he  exclaimed  suddenly. 

"Well,  then,  she  loves  you.     She  told  me  so." 

"Oh !" 

"She  did.    She  said  those  very  words." 

Miss  Baker  had  said  nothing  of  the  kind — would  have  died 
sooner  than  have  made  such  a  confession ;  but  Trina  had  drawn  her 
own  conclusions,  like  every  other  lodger  of  the  flat,  and  thought 
the  time  was  come  for  decided  action. 

"Now,  you  do  just  as  I  tell  you,  and  when  she  comes  home,  go 
right  in  and  see  her,  and  have  it  over  with.  Now,  don't  say  another 
word.  I'm  going;  but  you  do  just  as  I  tell  you." 

Trina  turned  about  and  went  down  stairs.  She  had  decided, 
since  Miss  Baker  was  not  at  home,  that  she  would  run  over  and  see 
Maria;  possibly  she  could  have  lunch  there.  At  any  rate,  Maria 
would  offer  her  a  cup  of  tea. 

Old  Grannis  stood  for  a  long  time  just  as  Trina  had  left  him,  his 
hands  trembling,  the  blood  coming  and  going  in  his  withered  cheeks. 

"She  said,  she — she — she  told  her — she  said  that — that — "  he 
could  get  no  further. 


198  McTeague 

Then  he  faced  about  and  entered  his  room,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  him.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  in  his  armchair,  drawn  close  to 
the  wall  in  front  of  the  table  on  which  stood  his  piles  of  pamphlets 
and  his  little  binding  apparatus. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Trina,  as  she  crossed  the  yard  back  of  Zer- 
kow's  house,  "I  wonder  what  rent  Zerkow  and  Maria  pay  for  this 
place.  I'll  bet  it's  cheaper  than  where  Mac  and  I  are." 

Trina  found  Maria  sitting  in  front  of  the  kitchen  stove,  her  chin 
upon  her  breast.  Trina  went  up  to  her.  She  was  dead.  And  as 
Trina  touched  her  shoulder,  her  head  rolled  sulewise  and  showed  a 
fearful  gash  in  her  throat  under  her  ear.  All  the  front  of  her  dress 
was  soaked  through  and  through:. 

Trina  backed  sharply  away  from  the  body,  drawing  her  hands  up 
to  her  very  shoulders,  her  eyes  staring  and  wide,  an  expression  of 
unutterable  horror  twisting  her  face. 

"Oh-h-h !"  she  exclaimed  in  a  long  breath,  her  voice  hardly  ris 
ing  above  a  whisper.  "Oh-h,  isn't  that  horrible!"  Suddenly  she 
turned  and  fled  through  the  front  part  of  the  house  to  the  street 
door,  that  opened  upon  the  little  alley.  She  looked  wildly  about 
her. 

Directly  across  the  way  a  butcher's  boy  was  getting  into  his 
two-wheeled  cart  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  opposite  house,  while 
near  by  a  pedler  of  wild  game  was  coming  down  the  street,  a  brace 
of  ducks  in  his  hand. 

"Oh,  say — say,"  gasped  Trina,  trying  to  get  her  voice,  "say, 
come  over  here  quick." 

The  butcher's  boy  paused,  one  foot  on  the  wheel,  and  stared. 
Trina  beckoned  frantically." 

"Come  over  here,  come  over  here  quick." 

The  young  fellow  swung  himself  into  his  seat. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  woman?"  he  said,  half  aloud. 

"There's  a  murder  been  done,"  cried  Trina,  swaying  in  the 
doorway. 

The  young  fellow  drove  away,  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  star 
ing  at  Trina  with  eyes  that  were  fixed  and  absolutely  devoid  of  ex 
pression. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  woman?"  he  said  again  to  him 
self  as  he  turned  the  corner. 

Trina  wondered  why  she  didn't  scream,  how  she  could  keep  from 
it — how,  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  she  could  remember  that  it  was 
improper  to  make  a  disturbance  and  create  a  scene  in  the  street. 


McTeague  199 

The  pedler  of  wild  game  was  looking  at  her  suspiciously.    It  would 
not  do  to  tell  him.     He  would  go  away  like  the  butcher's  boy. 

''Now,  wait  a  minute,"  Trina  said  to  herself,  speaking  aloud. 
She  put  her  hands  to  her  head.  "Now,  wait  a  minute.  It  won't 
do  for  me  to  lose  my  wits  now.  What  must  I  do?"  She  looked 
about  her.  There  was  the  same  familiar  aspect  of  Polk  Street. 
She  could  see  it  at  the  end  of  the  alley.  The  big  market  opposite 
the  flat,  the  delivery  carts  rattling  up  and  down,  the  great  ladies 
from  the  avenue  at  their  morning  shopping,  the  cable  cars  trun 
dling  past,  loaded  with  passengers.  She  saw  a  little  boy  in  a  flat 
leather  cap  whistling  and  calling  for  an  unseen  dog,  slapping  his 
small  knee  from  time  to  time.  Two  men  came  out  of  Frenna's 
saloon,  laughing  heartily.  Heise,  the  harness-maker,  stood  in  the 
vestibule  of  his  shop,  a  bundle  of  whittlings  in  his  apron  of  greasy 
ticking.  And  all  this  was  going  on,  people  were  laughing  and  liv 
ing,  buying  and  selling,  walking  about  out  there  on  the  sunny  side 
walks,  while  behind  her  in  there — in  there — in  there — 

Heise  started  back  from  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  white-lipped 
woman  in  a  blue  dressing-gown  that  seemed  to  rise  up  before  him 
from  his  very  doorstep. 

"Well,  Mrs.  McTeague,  you  did  scare  me,  for — " 

"Oh,  come  over  here  quick."  Trina  put  her  hand  to  her  neck, 
swallowing  something  that  seemed  to  be  choking  her.  "Maria's 
killed— Zerkow's  wife— I  found  her." 

"Get  out!"  exclaimed  Heise,  "you're  joking." 

"Come  over  here — over  into  the  house — I  found  her — she's 
dead." 

Heise  dashed  across  the  street  on  the  run,  with  Trina  at  his 
heels,  a  trail  of  spilled  whittlings  marking  his  course.  The  two 
ran  down  the  alley.  The  wild-game  pedler,  a  woman  who  had  been 
washing  down  the  steps  in  a  neighboring  house,  and  a  man  in  a 
broad-brimmed  hat  stood  at  Zerkow's  doorway,  looking  in  from 
time  to  time,  and  talking  together.  They  seemed  puzzled. 

"Anything  wrong  in  here?"  asked  the  wild-game  pedler  as 
Heise  and  Trina  came  up.  Two  more  men  stopped  on  the  corner 
of  the  alley  and  Polk  Street  and  looked  at  the  group.  A  woman 
with  a  towel  round  her  head  raised  a  window  opposite  Zerkow's 
house  and  called  to  the  woman  who  had  been  washing  the  steps, 
"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Flint?" 

Heise  was  already  inside  the  house.  He  turned  to  Trina,  pant 
ing  from  his  run. 


2oo  McTeague 

"Where  did  you  say — where  was  it — where?" 

"In  there,"  said  Trina,  "further  in— the  next  room."  They 
burst  into  the  kitchen. 

"Lord!"  ejaculated  Heise,  stopping  a  yard  or  so  from  the  body, 
and  bending  down  to  peer  into  the  gray  face  with  its  brown  lips. 

"By  God!  he's  killed  her." 

"Who  ?" 

"Zerkow,  by  God!  he's  killed  her.  Cut  her  throat.  He  always 
said  he  would." 

"Zerkow?' 

"He's  killed  her.  Her  throat's  cut.  Good  Lord,  how  she  did 
bleed !  By  God !  he's  done  for  her  in  good  shape  this  time." 

"Oh,  I  told  her— I  told  her,"  cried  Trina. 

"He's  done  for  her  sure  this  time." 

"She  said  she  could  always  manage —  Oh-h!  It's  hor 
rible." 

"He's  done  for  her  sure  this  trip.  Cut  her  throat.  Lord,  how 
she  has  bled!  Did  you  ever  see  so  much — that's  murder — that's 
cold-blooded  murder.  He's  killed  her.  Say,  we  must  get  a  police 
man.  Come  on." 

They  turned  back  through  the  house.  Half  a  dozen  people — 
the  wild-game  pedler,  the  man  with  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  the 
washwoman,  and  three  other  men — were  in  the  front  room  of  the 
junk  shop,  a  bank  of  excited  faces  surged  at  the  door.  Beyond  this, 
outside,  the  crowd  was  packed  solid  from  one  end  of  the  alley  to 
the  other.  Out  in  Polk  Street  the  cable  cars  were  nearly  blocked 
and  were  bunting  a  way  slowly  through  the  throng  with  clanging 
bells.  Every  window  had  its  group.  And  as  Trina  and  the  harness- 
maker  tried  to  force  the  way  from  the  door  of  the  junk  shop  the 
throng  suddenly  parted  right  and  left  before  the  passage  of  two 
blue-coated  policemen  who  clove  a  passage  through  the  press, 
working  their  elbows  energetically.  They  were  accompanied  by  a 
third  man  in  citizen's  clothes. 

Heise  and  Trina  went  back  into  the  kitchen  with  the  two  police 
men,  the  third  man  in  citizen's  clothes  cleared  the  intruders  from 
the  front  room  of  the  junk  shop  and  kept  the  crowd  back,  his  arm 
across  the  open  door. 

"Whew !"  whistled  one  of  the  officers  as  they  came  out  into  the 
kitchen,  "cutting  scrape?  By  George!  somebody's  been  using  his 
knife  all  right."  He  turned  to  the  other  officer.  "Better  get  the 
wagon.  There's  a  box  on  the  second  corner  south.  Now,  then,"  he 


McTeague  201 

continued,  turning  to  Trina  and  the  harness-maker  and  taking  out 
his  note-book  and  pencil,  "I  want  your  names  and  addresses." 

It  was  a  day  of  tremendous  excitement  for  the  entire  street. 
Long  after  the  patrol  wagon  had  driven  away,  the  crowd  remained. 
In  fact,  until  seven  o'clock  that  evening  groups  collected  about  the 
door  of  the  junk  shop,  where  a  policeman  stood  guard,  asking  all 
manner  of  questions,  advancing  all  manner  of  opinions. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  get  him?"  asked  Ryer  of  the  policeman. 
A  dozen  necks  craned  forward  eagerly. 

"Hoh,  we'll  get  him  all  right,  easy  enough,"  answered  the  other, 
with  a  grand  air. 

"What?  What's  that?  What  did  he  say?"  asked  the  people 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  group.  Those  in  front  passed  the  answer 
back. 

"He  says  they'll  get  him  all  right,  easy  enough." 

The  group  looked  at  the  policeman  admiringly. 

"He's  skipped  to  San  Jose." 

Where  the  rumor  started,  and  how,  no  one  knew.  But  every  one 
seemed  persuaded  that  Zerkow  had  gone  to  San  Jose. 

"But  what  did  he  kill  her  for?    Was  he  drunk?" 

"No,  he  was  crazy,  I  tell  you — crazy  in  the  head.  Thought  she 
was  hiding  some  money  from  him." 

Frenna  did  a  big  business  all  day  long.  The  murder  was  the 
one  subject  of  conversation.  Little  parties  were  made  up  in  his 
saloon — parties  of  two  and  threes — to  go  over  and  have  a  look  at 
the  outside  of  the  junk  shop.  Heise  was  the  most  important  man 
the  length  and  breadth  of  Polk  Street ;  almost  invariably  he  accom 
panied  these  parties,  telling  again  and  again  of  the  part  he  had 
played  in  the  affair. 

"It  was  about  eleven  o'clock.  I  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
shop,  when  Mrs.  McTeague — you  know,  the  dentist's  wife — came 
running  across  the  street,"  and  so  on  and  :o  on. 

The  next  day  came  a  fresh  sensation.  Polk  Street  read  of  it  in 
the  morning  papers.  Toward  midnight  on  the  day  of  the  murder 
Zerkow's  body  had  been  found  floating-  in  the  bay  near  Black  Point. 
No  one  knew  whether  he  had  drowned  himself  or  fallen  from  one 
of  the  wharves.  Clutched  in  both  his  hands  was  a_sack  full  of  old 
and  rusty  pans,  tin  dishesj:=^ully_ajiundred  ofjhenv^tjn  cans,  and 
iron  knives  ar-d  forks,  collected  from  some  dump  heap. 

"And  alTtfiisT  exclaimed ^Trina,  "on  account  of  a  set  of  gold 
dis'les  that  never  existed." 


202  McTeague 


XVII 

ONE  day,  about  a  fortnight  after  the  coroner's  inquest  had  been 
held,  and  when  the  excitement  of  the  terrible  affair  was  calming 
down  and  Polk  Street  beginning  to  resume  its  monotonous  routine, 
Old  Grannis  sat  in  his  clean,  well-kept  little  room,  in  his  cushioned 
armchair,  his  hands  lying  idly  upon  his  knees.  It  was  evening; 
not  quite  time  to  light  the  lamps.  Old  Grannis  had  drawn  his 
chair  close  to  the  wall — so  close,  in  fact,  that  he  could  hear  Miss 
Baker's  grenadine  brushing  against  the  other  side  of  the  thin  parti 
tion,  at  his  very  elbow,  while  she  rocked  gently  back  and  forth,  a 
cup  of  tea  in  her  hands. 

Old  Grannis's  occupation  was  gone.  That  morning  the  book 
selling  firm  where  he  had  bought  his  pamphlets  had  taken  his  little 
binding  apparatus  from  him  to  use  as  a  model.  The  transaction 
had  been  concluded.  Old  Grannis  had  received  his  check.  It  was 
large  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  when  all  was  over  he  returned  to  his 
room  and  sat  there  sad  and  unoccupied,  looking  at  the  pattern  in  the 
carpet  and  counting  the  heads  of  the  tacks  in  the  zinc  guard  that  was 
fastened  to  the  wall  behind  his  little  stove.  By  and  by  he  heard 
Miss  Baker  moving  about.  It  was  five  o'clock,  the  time  when  she 
was  accustomed  to  make  her  cup  of  tea  and  "keep  company"  with 
him  on  her  side  of  the  partition.  Old  Grannis  drew  up  his  chair 
to  the  wall  near  where  he  knew  she  was  sitting.  The  minutes 
passed;  side  by  side,  and  separated  by  only  a  couple  of  inches  of 
board,  the  two  old  people  sat  there  together,  while  the  afternoon 
grew  darker. 

But  for  Old  Grannis  all  was  different  that  evening.    There  was 

nothing  for  him  to  do.     His  hands  lay  idly  in  his  lap.     His  table, 

-  with  its  pile  of  pamphlets,  was  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  and, 

1   from  time  to  time,  stirred  with  an  uncertain  trouble,  he  turned  his 

head  and  looked  at  it  sadly,  reflecting  that  he  would  never  use  it 

/  again.    The  absence  of  his  accustomed  work  seemed  to  leave  some 

thing  out  of  his  life.    It  did  not  appear  to  him  that  he  could  be  the 

same  to  Miss  Baker  now ;  their  little  habits  were  disarranged,  their 

customs  broken  up.    He  could  no  longer  fancy  himself  so  near  to 


McTeague  203 

her.  They  would  drift  apart  now,  and  she  would  no  lonsper  make 
herself  a  cup  of  tea  and  "keep  company"  with  him  when  she  knew 
that  he  would  never  again  sit  before  his  table  binding  uncut  pam 
phlets.  He  had  sold  his  happiness  forjnoney;  he  had  bartered  all 
his  tardy  romance' for  some  miserable  bank-notes.  He  had  not  fore- 
seerfThat  It" would  he~lttfe~thtsT  "ftTasf  regr eF welled  up  within  him. 
What  was  that  on  the  back  of  his  hand?  He  wiped  it  dry  with,  \ 
his  ancient  silk  handkerchief. 

Old  Grannis  leaned  his  face  in  his  hands.  Not  only  did  an  inex 
plicable  regret  stir  within  him,  but  a  certain  great  tenderness  came 
upon  him.  The  tears  that  swam  in  his  faded  blue  eyes  were  not  al 
together  those  of  unhappiness.  No,  this  long-delayed  affection  that 
had  come  upon  him  in  his  later  years  filled  him  with  a  joy  for  which 
tears  seemed  to  be  the  natural  expression.  For  thirty  years  his  eyes 
had  not  been  wet,  but  to-night  he  felt  as  if  he  were  young  again. 
He  had  never  loved  before,  and  there  was  still  a  part  of  him  that 
was  only  twenty  years  of  age.  He  could  not  tell  whether  he  was 
profoundly  sad  or  deeply  happy;  but  he  was  not  ashamed  of  the 
tears  that  brought  the  smart  to  his  eyes  and  the  ache  to  his  throat. 
He  did  not  hear  the  timid  rapping  on  his  door,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  door  itself  opened  that  he  looked  up  quickly  and  saw  the  little 
retired  dressmaker  standing  on  the  threshold,  carrying  a  cup  of  tea 
on  a  tiny  Japanese  tray.  She  held  it  toward  him.  . 

"I  was  making  some  tea,"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  you  would 
like  to  have  a  cup." 

Never  after  could  the  little  dressmaker  understand  how  she  had 
brought  herself  to  do  this  thing.  One  moment  she  had  been  sitting 
quietly  on  her  side  of  the  partition,  stirring  her  cup  of  tea  with  one 
of  her  Gorham  spoons.  She  was  quiet,  she  was  peaceful.  The  even 
ing  was  closing  down  tranquilly.  Her  room  was  the  picture  of 
calmness  and  order.  The  geraniums  blooming  in  the  starch  boxes 
in  the  window,  the  aged  goldfish  occasionally  turning-  his  iridescent 
flank  to  catch  a  sudden  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  The  next  moment 
she  had  been  all  trepidation.  It  seemed  to  her  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  to  make  a  steaming  cup  of  tea  and  carry  it  in  to  Old 
Grannis  next  door.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  wanting  her,  that 
she  ought  to  go  to  him.  With  the  brusque  resolve  and  intrepidity  ^ 
that  sometimes  seizes  upon  very  timid  people — the  courage  of  the 
coward,  greater  than  all  others — she  had  presented  herself  at  the  old  / 
Englishman's  half-open  door,  and,  when  he  had  not  heeded  her 
knock,  had  pushed  it  open,  and  at  last,  after  all  these  years,  stood 


204  McTeague 

upon  the  threshold  of  his  room.  She  had  found  courage  enough  to 
explain  her  intrusion. 

"I  was  making  some  tea,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
a  cup." 

Old  Grannis  dropped  his  hands  upon  either  arm  of  his  chair, 
and,  leaning  forward  a  little,  looked  at  her  blankly.  He  did  not 
speak. 

The  retired  dressmaker's  courage  had  carried  her  thus  far ;  now 
it  deserted  her  as  abruptly  as  it  had  come.  Her  cheeks  became  scar 
let;  her  funny  little  false  curls  trembled  with  her  agitation.  What 
she  had  done  seemed  to  her  indecorous  beyond  expression.  It  was 
an  enormity.  Fancy,  she  had  gone  into  his  room,  into  his  room — 
Mister  Grannis's  room.  She  had  done  this — she  who  could  not  pass 
him  on  the  stairs  without  a  qualm.  What  to  do  she  did  not  know. 
She  stood,  a  fixture,  on  the  threshold  of  his  room,  without  even 
resolution  enough  to  beat  a  retreat.  Helplessly,  and  with  a  little 
quaver  in  her  voice,  she  repeated  obstinately: 

"I  was  making  some  tea,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
a  cup  of  tea."  Her  agitation  betrayed  itself  in  the  repetition  of  the 
words.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  hold  the  tray  out  another  in 
stant.  Already  she  was  trembling  so  that  half  the  tea  was  spilled. 

Old  Grannis  still  kept  silence,  still  bending  forward,  with  wide 
eyes,  his  hands  gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

Then  with  the  tea-tray  still  held  straight  before  her,  the  little 
dressmaker  exclaimed  tearfully: 

"Oh,  I  -didn't  mean — I  didn't  mean — I  didn't  know  it  would 
seem  like  this.  I  only  meant  to  be  kind  and  bring  you  some  tea; 
and  now  it  seems  so  improper.  I — I — I'm  so  ashamed!  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  think  of  me.  I — "  she  caught  her  breath — 
"improper — "  she  managed  to  exclaim,  "unladylike — you  can  never 
think  well  of  me — I'll  go."  She  turned  about. 

"Stop,"  cried  Old  Grannis,  finding  his  voice  at  last.  Miss  Baker 
paused,  looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  her  eyes  very  wide  open, 
blinking  through  her  tears,  for  all  the  world  like  a  frightened  child. 

"Stop,"  exclaimed  the  old  Englishman,  rising  to  his  feet.  "I 
didn't  know  it  was  you  at  first.  I  hadn't  dreamed— I  couldn't  be 
lieve  you  would  be  so  good,  so  kind  to  me.  Oh,"  he  cried,  with  a 
sudden  sharp  breath,  "oh,  you  are  kind.  I — I — you  have — have 
made  me  very  happy." 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Miss  Baker,  ready  to  sob.  "It  was  unlady 
like.  You  will— you  must  think  ill  of  me."  She  stood  in  the  hall. 


McTeague  205 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  had  no  free 
hand  to  dry  them. 

"Let  me — I'll  take  the  tray  from  you,"  cried  Old  Grannis,  com 
ing  forward.  A  tremulous  joy  came  upon  him.  Never  in  his  life 
had  he  been  so  happy.  At  last  it  had  come — come  when  he  had 
least  expected  it.  That  which  he  had  longed  for  and  hoped  for 
through  so  many  years,  behold,  it  was  come  to-night.  He  felt 
his  awkwardness  leaving  him.  He  was  almost  certain  that  the  little 
dressmaker  loved  him,  and  the  thought  gave  him  boldness.  He 
came  toward  her  and  took  the  tray  from  her  hands,  and,  turning 
back  into  the  room  with  it,  made  as  if  to  set  it  upon  his  table.  But 
the  piles  of  his  pamphlets  were  in  the  way.  Both  of  his  hands  were 
occupied  with  the  tray ;  he  could  not  make  a  place  for  it  on  the  table. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  uncertain,  his  embarrassment  returning. 

"Oh,  won't  you — won't  you  please — "  He  turned  his  head,  look 
ing  appealingly  at  the  little  old  dressmaker. 

"Wait,  111  help  you,"  she  said.  She  came  into  the  room,  up  to 
the  table,  and  moved  the  pamphlets  to  one  side. 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  murmured  Old  Grannis,  setting  down  the 
tray. 

"Now — now — now  I  will  go  back,"  she  exclaimed,  hurriedly. 

"No— no,"  returned  the  old  Englishman.  "Don't  go,  don't  go. 
I've  been  so  lonely  to-night — and  last  night  too — all  this  year — all 
my  life,"  he  suddenly  cried. 

"I— I — I've  forgotten  the  sugar." 

"But  I  never  take  sugar  in  my  tea." 

"But  it's  rather  cold,  and  I've  spilled  it — almost  all  of  it." 

"I'll  drink  it  from  the  saucer."  Old  Grannis  had  drawn  up  his 
armchair  for  her. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't.  This  is— this  is  so—  You  must  think  ill  of 
me."  Suddenly  she  sat  down,  and  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Think  ill  of  you?"  cried  Old  Grannis,  "think  ill  of  you?  Why, 
you  don't  know — you  have  no  idea — all  these  years — living  so  close 
to  you,  I — I — "  he  paused  suddenly.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 
beating  of  his  heart  was  choking  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  binding  your  books  to-night,"  said  Miss 
Baker,  suddenly,  "and  you  looked  tired.  I  thought  you  looked  tired 
when  I  last  saw  you,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  you  know,  it— that — that 
does  you  so  much  good  when  you're  tired.  But  you  weren't  binding 
books." 


206  McTeague 

"No,  no,"  returned  Old  Grannis,  drawing  up  a  chair  and  sitting- 
down.  "No,  I— the  fact  is,  I've  sold  my  apparatus ;  a  firm  of  book 
sellers  has  bought  the  rights  of  it." 

"And  aren't  you  going  to  bind  books  any  more?"  exclaimed  the 
little  dressmaker,  a  shade  of  disappointment  in  her  manner.  "I 
thought  you  always  did  about  four  o'clock.  I  used  to  hear  you 
when  I  was  making  tea." 

It  hardly  seemed  possible  to  Miss  Baker  that  she  was  actually 
talking  to  Old  Grannis,  that  the  two  were  really  chatting  together, 
face  to  face,  and  without  the  dreadful  embarrassment  that  used 
to  overwhelm  them  both  when  they  met  on  the  stairs.  She  had 
often  dreamed  of  this,  but  had  always  put  it  off  to  some  far-distant 
day.  It  was  to  come  gradually,  little  by  little,  instead  of,  as  now, 
abruptly  and  with  no  preparation.  That  she  should  permit  herself 
the  indiscretion  of  actually  intruding  herself  into  his  room  had  never 
so  much  as  occurred  to  her.  Yet  here  she  was,  in  his  room,  and 
they  were  talking  together,  and  little  by  little  her  embarrassment 
was  wearing  away. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  always  heard  you  when  you  were  making  tea,"  re 
turned  the  old  Englishman ;  "I  heard  the  tea  things.  Then  I  used 
to  draw  my  chair  and  my  work-table  close  to  the  wall  on  my  side, 
and  sit  there  and  work  while  you  drank  your  tea  just  on  the  other 
side ;  and  I  used  to  feel  very  near  to  you  then.  I  used  to  pass  the 
whole  evening  that  way." 

"And,  yes — yes — I  did,  too,"  she  answered.  "I  used  to  make 
tea  just  at  that  time  and  sit  there  for  a  whole  hour." 

"And  didn't  you  sit  close  to  the  partition  on  your  side?  Some 
times  I  was  sure  of  it.  I  could  even  fancy  that  I  could  hear  your 
dress  brushing  against  the  wall-paper  close  beside  me.  Didn't  you 
sit  close  to  the  partition  ?" 

"I— I  don't  know  where  I  sat." 

Old  Grannis  shyly  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers  as  it  lay  upon 
her  lap. 

"Didn't  you  sit  close  to  the  partition  on  your  side?"  he  insisted. 

"No — I  don't  know — perhaps — sometimes.  Oh,  yes,"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  little  gasp,  "oh,  yes,  I  often  did." 

Then  old  Grannis  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  kissed  her  faded 
cheek,  that  flushed  to  pink  upon  the  instant. 

After  that  they  spoke  but  little.  The  day  lapsed  slowly  into 
twilight,  and  the  two  old  people  sat  there  in  the  gray  evening, 
quietly,  quietly,  their  hands  in  each  other's  hands,  "keeping  com- 


McTeague  207 

pany,"  but  now  with  nothing  to  separate  them.  It  had  come  at  last. 
After  all  these  years  they  were  together;  they  understood  each 
other.  They  stood  at  length  in  a  little  Elysium  of  their  own  creat 
ing.  They  walked  hand  in  hand  in  a  delicious  garden  where  it 
was  always  autumn.  Far  from  the  world  and  together  they  en 
tered  upon  the  long  retarded  romance  of  their  commonplace  and 
uneventful  lives. 


XVIII 

THAT  same  night  McTeague  was  awakened  by  a  shrill  scream, 
and  woke  to  find  Trina's  arms  around  his  neck.  She  was  trembling 
so  that  the  bed-springs  creaked. 

"Huh?"  cried  the  dentist,  sitting  up  in  bed,  raising  his  clinched 
fists.  "Huh?  What?  What?  What  is  it?  What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  Mac,"  gasped  his  wife,  "I  had  such  an  awful  dream.  I 
dreamed  about  Maria.  I  thought  she  was  chasing  me,  and  I  couldn't 
run,  and  her  throat  was —  Oh,  she  was  all  covered  with  blood. 
Oh-h,  I'm  so  frightened!" 

Trina  had  borne  up  very  well  for  the  first  day  or  so  after  the 
affair,  and  had  given  her  testimony  to  the  coroner  with  far  greater 
calmness  than  Heise.  It  was  only  a  week  later  that  the  horror  of 
the  thing  came  upon  her  again.  She  was  so  nervous  that  she  hardly 
dared  to  be  alone  in  the  daytime,  and  almost  every  night  woke  with 
a  cry  of  terror,  trembling  with  the  recollection  of  some  dreadful 
nightmare.  The  dentist  was  irritated  beyond  all  expression  by  her 
nervousness,  and  especially  was  he  exasperated  when  her  cries  woke 
him  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  He  would  sit  up  in  bed, 
rolling  his  eyes  wildly,  throwing  out  his  huge  fists — at  what,  he 
did  not  know — exclaiming,  "What — what — "  bewildered  and  hope 
lessly  confused.  Then  when  he  realized  that  it  was  only  Trina,  his 
Danger  kindled  abruptly. 

~"Oh,  you  and  your  dreams!    You  go  to  sleep,  or  I'll  give  you  a 
dressing  down.    Sometimes  he  would  hit  her  a  great  thwack  with  his  \ 
open  palm,  or  catch  her  hand  and  bite  the  tips  of  her  fingers.    Trina 
would  lie  awake  for  hours  afterward,  crying  softly  to  herself.    Then, 
by  and  by,  "Mac,"  she  would  say  timidly. 

"Huh?" 

"Mac,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Huh?     What?    Go  to  sleep." 


208  McTeague 

"Don't  you  love  me  any  more,  Mac?" 

"Oh,  go  to  sleep.    Don't  bother  me." 

"Well,  do  you  love  me,  Mac  ?" 

"7  guess  so." 

"Oh,  Mac,  I've  only  you  now,  and  if  you  don't  love  me,  what  is 
going  to  become  of  me  ?" 

"Shut  up,  an'  let  me  go  to  sleep." 

"Well,  just  tell  me  that  you  love  me." 

The  dentist  would  turn  abruptly  away  from  her,  burying  his 
big  blond  head  in  the  pillow,  and  covering  up  his  ears  with  the 
blankets.  Then  Trina  would  sob  herself  to  sleep. 

The  dentist  had  long  since  given  up  looking  for  a  job.  Between 
breakfast  and  supper  time  Trina  saw  but  little  of  him.  Once  the 
morning  meal  over,  McTeague  bestirred  himself,  put  on  his  cap — 
he  had  given  up  wearing  even  a  hat  since  his  wife  had  made  him 
sell  his  silk  hat — and  went  out.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
taking  long  and  solitary  walks  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the  city. 
Sometimes  it  was  to  the  Cliff  House,  occasionally  to  the  Park  (where 
he  would  sit  on  the  sun-warmed  benches,  smoking  his  pipe  and  read 
ing  ragged  ends  of  old  newspapers),  but  more  often  it  was  to  the 
Presidio  Reservation.  McTeague  would  walk  out  to  the  end  of  the 
Union  Street  car  line,  entering  the  Reservation  at  the  terminus, 
then  he  would  work  down  to  the  shore  of  the  bay,  follow  the  shore 
line  to  the  Old  Fort  at  the  Golden  Gate,  and,  turning  the  Point  here, 
come  out  suddenly  upon  the  full  sweep  of  the  Pacific.  Then  he 
would  follow  the  beach  down  to  a  certain  point  of  rocks  that  he 
knew.  Here  he  would  turn  inland,  climbing  the  bluffs  to  a  rolling 
grassy  down  sown  with  blue  iris  and  a  yellow  flower  that  he  did  not 
know  the  name  of.  .On  the  far  side  of  this  down  was  a  broad,  well- 
kept  road.  McTeague  would  keep  to  this  road  until  he  reached  the 
city  again  by  the  way  of  the  Sacramento  Street  car  line.  The  den 
tist  loved  these  walks.  He  liked  to  be  alone.  He  liked  the  solitude 
of  the  tremendous,  tumbling  ocean;  the  fresh,  windy  downs;  he 
liked  to  feel  the  gusty  Trades  flogging  his  face,  and  he  would  re 
main  for  hours  watching  the  roll  and  plunge  of  the  breakers  with 
the  silent,  unreasoned  enjoyment  of  a  child.  All  at  once  he  developed 
a  passion  for  fishing.  He  would  sit  all  day  nearly  motionless  upon 
a  point  of  rocks,  his  fish-line  between  his  fingers,  happy  if  he  caught 
three  perch  in  twelve  hours.  At  noon  he  would  retire  to  a  bit  of 
level  turf  around  an  angle  of  the  shore  and  cook  his  fish,  eating 
them  without  salt  or  knife  or  fork.  He  thrust  a  pointed  stick  down 


McTeague  209 

the  mouth  of  the  perch,  and  turned  it  slowly  over  the  blaze.  When 
the  grease  stopped  dripping,  he  knew  that  it  was  done,  and  would 
devour  it  slowly  and  with  tremendous  relish,  picking  the  bones  clean, 
eating  even  the  head.  He  remembered  how  often  he  used  to  do  this 
sort  of  thing  when  he  was  a  boy  in  the  mountains  of  Placer  County, 
before  he  became  a  car-boy  at  the  mine.  The  dentist  enjoyed  him 
self  hugely  during  these  days.  The  instincts  of  the  old-time  miner 
were  returning.  In  the  stress  of  his  misfortune  McTeague  was 
lapsing  back  to  his  early  estate. 

One  "evening  as  he  reached  home  after  such  a  tramp,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  Trina  standing  in  front  of  what  had  been  Zerkow's 
house,  looking  at  it  thoughtfully,  her  finger  on  her  lips. 

"What  you  doing  here?"  growled  the  dentist  as  he  came  up. 
There  was  a  "Rooms-to-let"  sign  on  the  street  door  of  the  house. 

"Now  we've  found  a  place  to  move  to,"  exclaimed  Trina. 

"What?"  cried  McTeague.  "There,  in  that  dirty  house,  where 
you  found  Maria?" 

"I  can't  afford  that  room  in  the  flat  any  more,  now  that  you  can't 
get  any  work  to  do." 

"But  there's  where  Zerkow  killed  Maria — the  very  house — an' 
you  wake  up  an'  squeal  in  the  night  just  thinking  of  it." 

"I  know.  I  know  it  will  be  bad  at  first,  but  I'll  get  used  to  it, 
and  it's  just  half  again  as  cheap  as  where  we  are  now.  I  was  looking 
at  a  room;  we  can  have  it  dirt  cheap.  It's  a  back  room  over  the 
kitchen.  A  German  family  are  going  to  take  the  front  part  of  the 
house  and  sublet  the  rest.  I'm  going  to  take  it.  It  will  be  money 
in  my  pocket." 

"But  it  won't  be  any  in  mine,"  vociferated  the  dentist,  angrily. 
"I'll  have  to  live  in  that  dirty  rat  hole  just  so's  you  can  save  money. 
/  ain't  any  the  better  off  for  it." 

"Find  work  to  do,  and  then  we'll  talk,"  declared  Trina.  "I'm 
going  to  save  up  some  money  against  a  rainy  day ;  and  if  I  can  save 
more  by  living  here,  I'm  going  to  do  it,  even  if  it  is  the  house  Maria 
was  killed  in.  I  don't  care." 

"All  right,"  said  McTeague,  and  did  not  make  any  further  pro 
test.  His  wife  looked  at  him  surprised.  She  could  not  under 
stand  this  sudden  acquiescence.  Perhaps  McTeague  was  so  much 
away  from  home  of  late  that  he  had  ceased  to  care  where  or  how 
he  lived.  But  this  sudden  change  troubled  her  a  little  for  all  that. 

The  next  day  the  McTeagues  moved  for  a  second  time.  It  did 
not  take  them  long.  They  were  obliged  to  buy  the  bed  from  the 


2io  McTeague 

landlady,  a  circumstance  which  nearly  broke  Trina's  heart ;  and  this 
bed,  a  couple  of  chairs,  Trina's  trunk,  an  ornament  or  two,  the  oil 
stove,  and  some  plates  and  kitchen  ware  were  all  that  .they  could  call 
their  own  now ;  and  this  back  room  in  that  wretched  house  with  its 
grisly  memories,  the  one  window  looking  out  into  a  grimy  maze 
of  back  yards  and  broken  sheds,  was  what  they  now  knew  as  their 
home. 

The  McTeagues  now  t>egan  to  sink  rapidly  lower  and  lower. 
They  became  accustomed  to  their  surroundings.  Worst  of  all, 
Trina  lost  her  pretty  ways  and  good  looks.  The  combined  effects 

*  of  hard  work,,  avarice,  poor  food,  and  her  husband's  brutalities  told 
on  her  swiftly.  Her  charming  little  figure  grew  coarse,  stunted, 

"arid  dumpy.     She,  who  had  once  been  of  a  cat-like  neatness,  now 

x  slovened  all  day  about  the  room  in  a  dirty  flannel  wrapper,  her 
slippers  clap-clapping  after  her  as  she  walked.  At  last  she  even 
neglected  her  hair,  the  wonderful  swarthy  tiara,  the  coiffure  of  a 

.  queen,  that  shaded  her  little  pale  forehead.  In  the  morning  she 
braided  it  before  it  was  half  combed,  and  piled  and  coiled  it  about 
her  head  in  haphazard  fashion.  It  came  down  half  a  dozen  times 
a  day;  by  evening  it  was  an  unkempt,  tangled  mass,  a  veritable 
rat's  nest. 

Ah,  no,  it  was  not  very  gay,  that  life  of  hers,  when  one  had  to 
rustle  for  two,  cook  and  work  and  wash,  to  say  nothing  of  paying 
the  rent.  What  odds  was  it  if  she  was  slatternly,  dirty,  coarse? 
Was  there  time  to  make  herself  look  otherwise,  and  who  was  there 
to  be  pleased  when  she  was  all  prinked  out?  Surely  not  a  great 
brute  of  a  husband  who  bit  you  like  a  dog,  and  kicked  and  pounded 
you  as  though  you  were  made  of  iron.  Ah,  no,  better  let  things 
go  and  take  it  as  easy  as  you  could.  Hump  your  back,  and  it  was 
soonest  over. 

The  one  room  grew  abominably  dirty,  reeking  with  the  odors  of 
cooking  and  of  "non-poisonous"  paint.  The  bed  was  not  made  until 
late  in  the  afternoon,  sometimes  not  at  all.  Dirty,  unwashed  crock 
ery,  greasy  knives,  sodden  fragments  of  yesterday's  meals  cluttered 
the  table,  while  in  one  corner  was  the  heap  of  evil-smelling,  dirty 
linen.  Cockroaches  appeared  in  the  crevices  of  the  woodwork,  the 
wall  paper  bulged  from  the  damp  walls  and  began  to  peel.  Trina 
had  long  ago  ceased  to  dust  or  to  wipe  the  furniture  with  a  bit  of  rag. 
The  grime  grew  thick  upon  the  window  panes  and  in  the  corners  of 
the  room.  All  the  filth  of  the  pi  ley  invaded  their  quarters  like  a 
rising  muddy  tide. 


McTeague  2 1 1 

Between  the  windows,  however,  the  faded  photograph  of  the 
couple  in  their  wedding  finery  looked  down  upon  the  wretchedness, 
Trina  still  holding  her  set  bouquet  straight  before  her,  McTeague 
standing  at  her  side,  his  left  foot  forward,  in  the  attitude  of  a  Sec 
retary  of  State;  while  nearby  hung  the  canary,  the  one  thing  the' 
dentist  clung  to  obstinately,  piping  and  chittering  all  day  in  its  little 
gilt  prison. 

And  the  tooth,  the  gigantic  golden  molar  of  French  gilt,  enormous 
and  ungainly,  sprawled  its  branching  prongs  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  by  the  footboard  of  the  bed.  The  McTeagues  had  come  to  use 
it  as  a  sort  of  substitute  for  a  table.  After  breakfast  and  supper 
Trina  piled  the  plates  and  greasy  dishes  upon  it  to  have  them  out 
of  the  way. 

One  afternoon  the  Other  Dentist,  McTeague's  old-time  rival, 
the  wearer  of  marvelous  waistcoats,  was  surprised  out  of  all  coun 
tenance  to  receive  a  visit  from  McTeague.  The  Other  Dentist  was 
in  his  operating  room  at  the  time,  at  work  upon  a  plaster-of-paris 
mold.  To  his  call  of  "Come  right  in.  Don't  you  see  the  sign. 
'Enter  without  knocking'?"  McTeague  came  in.  He  noted  at  once 
how  airy  and  cheerful  was  the  room.  A  little  fire  coughed  and 
tittered  on  the  hearth,  a  brindled  greyhound  sat  on  his  haunches 
watching  it  intently,  a  great  mirror  over  the  mantel  offered  to  view 
an  array  of  actresses'  pictures  thrust  between  the  glass  and  the 
frame,  and  a  big  bunch  of  freshly-cut  violets  stood  in  a  glass  bowl 
on  the  polished  cherry-wood  table.  The  Other  Dentist  came  for 
ward  briskly,  exclaiming  cheerfully: 

"Oh,  Doctor-^Mr^  McTeague,  how  do?  how  do?" 

The  fellow  was-actually  wearing  a  velvet  smoking  jacket.  A 
cigarette  was  between  his  lips;  his  patent  leather  boots  reflected  the 
firelight.  McTeague  wore  a  black  surah  neglige  shirt  without  a  cra 
vat;  huge  buckled  brogans,  hob-nailed,  gross,  incased  his  feet;  the 
hems  of  his  trousers  were  spotted  with  mud ;  his  coat  was  frayed  at 
the  sleeves  and  a  button  was  gone.  In  three  days  he  had  not  shaved ; 
his  shock  of  heavy  blond  hair  escaped  from  beneath  the  visor  of  his 
woolen  cap  and  hung  low  over  his  forehead.  He  stood  with  awk 
ward,  shifting  feet  and  uncertain  eyes  before  this  dapper  young 
fellow  who  reeked  of  the  barber  shop,  and  whom  he  had  once  ordered 
from  his  rooms. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  this  morning,  Mister  McTeague? 
Something  wrong  with  the  teeth,  eh  ?" 

"No,    no."      McTeague,    floundering   in   the   difficulties   of   his 


2 !  2  McTeague 

speech,  forgot  the  carefully  rehearsed  words  with  which  he  had  in 
tended  to  begin  this  interview. 

"I  want  to  sell  you  my  sign,"  he  said,  stupidly.  "That  big 
tooth  of  French  gilt — you  know — that  you  made  an  offer  for  once." 

"Oh,  /  don't  want  that  now/'  said  the  other  loftily.  "I  prefer  a 
little  quiet  signboard,  nothing  pretentious — just  the  name,  and  'Den 
tist7  after  it.  These  big  signs  are  vulgar.  No,  I  don't  want  it." 

McTeague  remained,  looking  about  on  the  floor,  horribly  em 
barrassed,  not  knowing  whether  to  go  or  to  stay. 

"But  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Other  Dentist,  reflectively.  "If  it 
will  help  you  out  any — I  guess  you're  pretty  hard  up — I'll — well,  I 
tell  you  what — I'll  give  you  five  dollars  for  it." 

"All  right,  all  right." 

On  the  following  Thursday  morning  McTeague  woke  to  hear 
the  eaves  dripping  and  the  prolonged  rattle  of  the  rain  upon  the 
roof. 

"Raining,"  he  growled,  in  deep  disgust,  sitting  up  in  bed,  and 
winking  at  the  blurred  window. 

"It's  been  raining  all  night,"  said  Trina.  She  was  already  up 
and  dressed,  and  was  cooking  breakfast  on  the  oil  stove. 

McTeague  dressed  himself,  grumbling,  "Well,  I'll  go,  anyhow. 
The  fish  will  bite  all  the  better  for  the  rain." 

"Look  here,  Mac,"  said  Trina,  slicing  a  bit  of  bacon  as  thinly 
as  she  could.  "Look  here,  why  don't  you  bring  some  of  your  fish 
home  sometime?" 

"Huh !"  snorted  the  dentist,  "so's  we  could  have  'em  for  break 
fast.  Might  save  you  a  nickel,  mightn't  it  ?" 

"Well,  and  if  it  did !  Or  you  might  fish  for  the  market.  The 
fishman  across  the  street  would  buy  'em  of  you." 

"Shut  up!"  exclaimed  the  dentist,  and  Trina  obediently  sub 
sided. 

"Look  here,"  continued  her  husband,  fumbling  in  his  trousers 
pocket  and  bringing  out  a  dollar,  "I'm  sick  and  tired  of  coffee  and 
bacon  and  mashed  potatoes.  Go  over  to  the  market  and  get  some 
kind  of  meat  for  breakfast.  Get  a  steak,  or  chops,  or  something." 

"Why,  Mac,  that's  a  whole  dollar,  and  he  only  gave  you  five 
for  your  sign.  We  can't  afford  it.  Sure,  Mac.  Let  me  put  that 
money  away  against  a  rainy  day.  You're  just  as  well  off  without 
meat  for  breakfast." 

"You  do  as  I  tell  you.  Get  some  steak,  or  chops,  or  something." 
Please,  Mac,  dear." 


McTeague  213 

"Go  on,  now.    I'll  bite  your  fingers  again  pretty  soon." 

"But—" 

The  dentist  took  a  step  toward  her,  snatching  at  her  hand. 

"All  right,  I'll  go,"  cried  Trina,  wincing  and  shrinking.  "I'll 
go." 

She  did  not  get  the  chops  at  the  big  market,  however.  Instead, 
she  hurried  to  a  cheaper  butcher  shop  on  a  side  street  two  blocks 
away,  and  bought  fifteen  cents'  worth  of  chops  from  a  side  of  mut 
ton  some  two  or  three  days  old.  She  was  gone  some  little  time. 

"Give  me  the  change,"  exclaimed  the  dentist,  as  soon  as  she 
returned.  Trina  handed  him  a  quarter;  and  when  McTeague  was 
about  to  protest,  broke  in  upon  him  with  a  rapid  stream  of  talk  that 
confused  him  upon  the  instant.  But  for  that  matter,  it  was  never 
difficult  for  Trina  to  deceive  the  dentist  He  never  went  to  the 
bottom  of  things.  He  would  have  believed  her  if  she  had  told  him 
the  chops  had  cost  a  dollar. 

"There's  sixty  cents  saved,  anyhow,"  thought  Trina,  as  she 
clutched  the  money  in  her  pocket  to  keep  it  from  rattling. 

Trina  cooked  the  chops,  and  they  breakfasted  in  silence.     .- 

"Now,"  said  McTeague  as  he  rose,  wiping  the  coffee  from  his 
thick  mustache  with  the  hollow  of  his  palm,  "now  I'm  going  fishing, 
rain  or  no  rain.  I'm  going  to  be  gone  all  day." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  his  fish-line  in  his  hand, 
swinging  the  heavy  sinker  back  and  forth.  He  looked  at  Trina  as 
she  cleared  away  the  breakfast  things. 

"So  long,"  said  he,  nodding  his  huge  square-cut  head.  This 
amiability  in  the  matter  of  leave  taking  was  unusual.  Trina  put  the 
dishes  down  and  came  up  to  him,  her  little  chin,  once  so  adorable, 
in  the  air: 

"Kiss  me  good-by,  Mac,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  "You  do  love  me  a  little  yet,  don't  you,  Mac?  We'll  be 
happy  again  some  day.  This  is  hard  times  now,  but  we'll  pull  out. 
You'll  find  something  to  do  pretty  soon." 

"/  guess  so,"  growled  McTeague,  allowing  her  to  kiss  him. 

The  canary  was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage,  and  just  now  broke 
out  into  a  shrill  trilling,  its  little  throat  bulging  and  quivering.  The 
dentist  stared  at  it.  "Say,"  he  remarked  slowly,  "I  think  I'll  take 
that  bird  of  mine  along." 

"Sell  it?"  inquired  Trina. 

"Yes,  yes,  sell  it." 

"Well,  you  are  coming  to  your  senses  at  last,"  answered  Trina, 


214  McTeague 

approvingly.  "But  don't  you  let  the  bird-store  man  cheat  you. 
That's  a  good  songster ;  and  with  the  cage,  you  ought  to  make  him 
give  you  five  dollars.  You  stick  out  for  that  at  first,  anyhow." 

McTeague  unhooked  the  cage  and  carefully  wrapped  it  in  an 
old  newspaper,  remarking,  "He  might  get  cold.  Well,  so  long,"  he 
repeated,  "so  long." 

"Good-by,  Mac." 

When  he  was  gone,  Trina  took  the  sixty  cents  she  had  stolen 
from  him  out  of  her  pocket  and  recounted  it.  "It's  sixty  cents,  all 
right,"  she  said  proudly.  "But  I  do  believe  that  dime  is  too  smooth." 
She  looked  at  it  critically.  The  clock  on  the  power-house  of  the 
Sutter  Street  cable  struck  eight.  "Eight  o'clock  already,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "I  must  get  to  work."  She  cleared  the  breakfast  things 
from  the  table,  and  drawing  up  her  chair  and  her  workbox  began 
painting  the  sets  of  Noah's  ark  animals  she  had  whittled  the  day 
before.  She  worked  steadily  all  the  morning.  At  noon  she  lunched, 
warming  over  the  coffee  left  from  breakfast,  and  frying  a  couple  of 
sausages.  By  one  she  was  bending  over  her  table  again.  Her 
fingers — some  of  them  lacerated  by  'McTeague's  teeth — flew,  and 
the  little  pile  of  cheap  toys  in  the  basket  at  her  elbow  grew  steadily. 

"Where  do  all  the  toys  go  to?"  she  murmured.  "The  thousands 
and  thousands  of  these  Noah's  arks  that  I  have  made — horses  and 
chickens  and  elephants — and  always  there  never  seems  to  be  enough. 
It's  a  good  thing  for  me  that  children  break  their  things,  and  that 
they  all  have  to  have  birthdays  and  Christmases."  She  dipped  her 
brush  into  a  pot  of  Vandyke  brown  and  painted  one  of  the  whittled 
toy  horses  in  two  strokes.  Then  a  touch  of  ivory  black  with  a 
small  flat  brush  created  the  tail  and  mane,  and  dots  of  Chinese 
white  made  the  eyes.  The  turpentine  in  the  paint  dried  it  almost 
immediately,  and  she  tossed  the  completed  little  horse  into  the 
basket. 

At  six  o'clock  the  dentist  had  not  returned.  Trina  waited  until 
seven,  and  then  put  her  work  away,  and  ate  her  supper  alone. 

"I  wonder  what's  keeping  Mac,"  she  exclaimed  as  the  clock 
from  the  power-house  on  Sutter  Street  struck  half-past  seven.  "I 
know  he's  drinking  somewhere,"  she  cried,  apprehensively.  "He 
had  the  money  from  his  sign  with' him." 

At  eight  o'clock  she  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  went  over 
to  the  harness  shop.  If  anybody  would  know  where  McTeague  was 
it  would  be  Heise.  But  the  harness-maker  had  seen  nothing  of  him 
since  the  day  before. 


McTeague  215 

"He  was  in  here  yesterday  afternoon,  and  we  had  a  drink  or 
two  at  Frenna's.  Maybe  he's  been  in  there  to-day." 

"Oh,  won't  you  go  in  and  see  ?"  said  Trina.  "Mac  always  came 
home  to  his  supper — he  never  likes  to  miss  his  meals — and  I'm  get 
ting  frightened  about  him." 

Heise  went  into  the  barroom  next  door,  and  returned  with  no 
definite  news.  Frenna  had  not  seen  the  dentist  since  he  had  come 
in  with  the  harness-maker  the  previous  afternoon.  Trina  even  hum 
bled  herself  to  ask  of  the  Ryers — with  whom  they  had  quarreled — 
if  they  knew  anything  of  the  dentist's  whereabouts,  but  received  a 
contemptuous  negative. 

"Maybe  he's  come  in  while  I've  been  out,"  said  Trina  to  her 
self.  She  went  down  Polk  Street  again,  going  toward  the  flat.  The 
rain  had  stopped,  but  the  sidewalks  were  still  glistening.  The  cable 
cars  trundled  by,  loaded  with  theatregoers.  The  barbers  were  just 
closing  their  shops.  The  candy  store  on  the  corner  was  brilliantly 
lighted  and  was  filling  up,  while  the  green  and  yellow  lamps  from 
the  drug  store  directly  opposite  threw  kaleidoscopic  reflections  deep 
down  into  the  shining  surface  of  the  asphalt.  A  band  of  Salva 
tionists  began  to  play  and  pray  in  front  of  Frenna's  saloon.  Trina 
hurried  on  down  the  gay  street,  with  its  evening's  brilliancy  and 
small  activities,  her  shawl  over  her  head,  one  hand  lifting  her  faded 
skirt  from  off  the  wet  pavements.  She  turned  into  the  alley,  entered 
Zerkow's  old  home  by  the  ever-open  door,  and  ran  upstairs  to  the 
room.  Nobody. 

"Why,  isn't  this  funny"  she  exclaimed,  half  aloud,  standing  on 
the  threshold,  her  little  milk-white  forehead  curdling  to  a  frown,  one 
sore  finger  on  her  lips.  Then  a  great  fear  seized  upon  her.  Inevi 
tably  she  associated  the  house  with  a  scene  of  violent  death. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  to  the  darkness,  "Mac  is  all  right.  He  can 
take  care  of  himself."  But  for  all  that  she  had  a  clear-cut  vision  of 
her  husband's  body,  bloated  with  sea-water,  his  blond  hair  stream 
ing  like  kelp,  rolling  inertly  in  shifting  waters. 

"He  couldn't  have  fallen  off  the  rocks,"  she  declared  firmly. 
"There — there  he  is  now."  She  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief  as  a 
heavy  tread  sounded  in  the  hallway  below.  She  ran  to  the  ban 
isters,  looking  over,  and  calling,  "Oh,  Mac !  Is  that  you,  Mac  ?"  It 
was  the  German  whose  family  occupied  the  lower  floor.  The  power 
house  clock  struck  nine. 

"My  God,  where  is  Mac?"  cried  Trina,  stamping  her  foot. 

She  put  the  shawl  over  her  head  again,  and  went  out  and  stood 


216  McTeague 

on  the  corner  of  the  alley  and  Polk  Street,  watching  and  waiting, 
craning  her  neck  to  see  down  the  street.  Once,  even,  she  went  out 
upon  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  flat  and  sat  down  for  a  moment 
upon  the  horse-block  there.  She  could  not  help  remembering  the 
day  when  she  had  been  driven  up  to  that  horse-block  in  a  hack. 
Her  mother  and  father  and  Owgooste  and  the  twins  were  with  her. 
It  was  her  wedding  day.  Her  wedding  dress  was  in  a  huge  tin 
trunk  on  the  driver's  seat.  She  had  never  been  happier  before  in 
all  her  life.  She  remembered  how  she  got  out  of  the  hack  and 
stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  horse-block,  looking  up  at  McTeague's 
windows.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  at  his  shaving,  the 
lather  still  on  his  cheeks,  and  they  had  waved  their  hands  at  each 
other.  Instinctively  Trina  looked  up  at  the  flat  behind  her ;  looked 
up  at  the  bay  window  where  her  husband's  "Dental  Parlors"  had 
been.  It  was  all  dark ;  the  windows  had  the  blind,  sightless  appear 
ance  imparted  by  vacant,  untenanted  rooms.  A  rusty  iron  rod  pro 
jected  mournfully  from  one  of  the  window  ledges. 

"There's  where  our  sign  hung  once,"  said  Trina.  She  turned 
her  head  and  looked  down  Polk  Street  toward  where  the  Other 
Dentist  had  his  rooms,  and  there,  overhanging  the  street  from  his 
window,  newly  furbished  and  brightened,  hung  the  huge  tooth,  her 
birthday  present  to  her  husband,  flashing  and  glowing  in  the  white 
glare  of  the  electric  lights  like  a  beacon  of  defiance  and  triumph. 

"Ah,  no;  ah,  no,"  whispered  Trina,  choking  back  a  sob.  "Life 
isn't  so  gay.  But  I  wouldn't  mind,  no,  I  wouldn't  mind  anything, 
if  only  Mac  was  home_all  right.  She  got  up  from  the  horse 
block  and  stood  again  on~~the  corner  of  the  alley,  watching  and 
listening. 

It  grew  later.  The  hours  passed.  Trina  kept  at  her  post.  The 
noise  of  approaching  footfalls  grew  less  and  less  frequent.  Little 
by  little  Polk ,  Street  dropped  back  into  solitude.  Eleven  o'clock 
struck  from  the  power-house  clock ;  lights  were  extinguished ;  at  one 
o'clock  the  cable  stopped,  leaving  an  abrupt  and  numbing  silence 
in  the  air.  All  at  once  it  seemed  very  still.  The  only  noises  were 
the  occasional  footfalls  of  a  policeman  and  the  persistent  calling  of 
ducks  and  geese  in  the  closed  market  across  the  way.  The  street 
was  asleep. 

When  it  is  night  and  dark,  and  one  is  awake  and  alone,  one's 
thoughts  take  the  color  of  the  surroundings ;  become  gloomy,  som 
bre,  and  very  dismal.  All  at  once  an  idea  came  to  Trina,  a  dark, 
terrible  idea ;  worse,  even,  than  the  idea  of  McTeague's  death. 


McTeague  217 

"Oh,  no,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  no.  It  isn't  true.  But  suppose — 
suppose." 

She  left  her  post  and  hurried  back  to  the  house. 

"No,  no,"  she  was  saying,  under  her  breath,  "it  isn't  possible. 
Maybe  he's  even  come  home  already  by  another  way.  But  suppose 
— suppose — suppose." 

She  ran  up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door  of  the  room,  and  paused, 
out  of  breath.  The  room  was  dark  and  empty.  With  cold,  trembling 
fingers  she  lighted  the  lamp,  and,  turning  about,  looked  at  her 
trunk.  The  lock  was  burst. 

"No,  no,  no,"  cried  Trina,  "it's  not  true;  it's  not  true."     She 
dropped  on  her  knees  before  the  trunk,  and  tossed  back  the  lid,  and      I 
plunged  her  hands  down  into  the  corner  underneath  her  wedding  N 
dress,  where  she  always  kept  the  savings.     The  brass  matchsafe 
and  the  chamois-skin  bag  were  there.     They  were  empty. 

Trina  flung  herself  full  length  upon  the  floor,  burying  her  face 
in  her  arms,  rolling  her  head  from  side  to  side.  Her  voice  rose  to  a 
wail. 

"No,  no,  no,  it's  not  true;  it's  not  true;  it's  not  true.  Oh,  he 
couldn't  have  done  it.  Oh,  how  could  he  have  done  it?  All  my 
money,  all  my  little  savings — and  deserted  me.  He's  gone,  my 
money's  gone,  my  dear  money — my  dear,  dear  gold  pieces  that  I've 
worked  so  hard  for.  Oh,  to  have  deserted  me — gone  for  good — 
gone  and  never  coming  back — gone  with  my  gold  pieces.  Gone — 
gone — gone.  I'll  never  see  them  again,  and  I've  worked  so  hard, 
so,  so  hard  for  him — for  them.  No,  no,  no,  it's  not  true.  It  is  truerj 
What  will  become  of  me  now  ?  Oh,  if  you'll  only  come  back  you  can 
have  all  the  money— half  of  it.  Oh,  give  me  back  my  money.  Give 
me  back  my  money,  and  I'll  forgive  you.  You  can  leave  me  then  if 
ynn"wa"nt  to.  Oh,  my  money.  Mac,  Mac,  you've  gone  for  good. 
You  don't  love  me  any  more,  and  now  I'm  a  beggar.  My  money's 
gone,  my  husband's  gone,  gone,  gone,  gone !" 

Her  grief  was  terrible.  She  dug  her  nails  into  her  scalp,  and 
clutching  the  heavy  coils  of  her  thick  black  hair  tore  it  again  and 
again.  She  struck  her  forehead  with  her  clinched  fists.  Her  little 
body  shook  from  head  to  foot  with  the  violence  of  her  sobbing.  She 
ground  her  small  teeth  together  and  beat  her  head  upon  the  floor  with 
all  her  strength. 

Her  hair  was  uncoiled  and  hanging  a  tangled,  disheveled  mass 
far  below  her  waist ;  her  dress  was  torn ;  a  spot  of  blood  was  upon 
her  forehead;  her  eyes  were  swollen;  her  cheeks  flamed  vermilion 

.T — III — NORRIS 


2i  8  McTeague 

from  the  fever  that  raged  in  her  veins.  Old  Miss  Baker  found  her 
thus  toward  five  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

What  had  happened  between  one  o'clock  and  dawn  of  that  fearful 
night  Trina  never  remembered.  She  could  only  recall  herself,  as 
in  a  picture,  kneeling  before  her  broken  and  rifled  trunk,  and  then — 
weeks  later,  so  it  seemed  to  her — she  woke  to  find  herself  in  her  own 
bed  with  an  iced  bandage  about  her  forehead  and  the  little  old 
dressmaker  at  her  side,  stroking  her  hot,  dry  palm. 

The  facts  of  the  matter  were  that  the  German  woman  who  lived 
below  had  been  awakened  some  hours  after  midnight  by  the  sounds 
of  Trina's  weeping.  She  had  come  upstairs  and  into  the  room  to 
find  Trina  stretched  face  downward  upon  the  floor,  half  conscious 
and  sobbing,  in  the  throes  of  an  hysteria  for  which  there  was  no 
relief.  The  woman,  terrified,  had  called  her  husband,  and  between 
them  they  had  got  Trina  upon  the  bed.  Then  the  German  woman 
happened  to  remember  that  Trina  had  friends  in  the  big  flat  near 
by,  and  had  sent  her  husband  to  fetch  the  retired  dressmaker,  while 
she  herself  remained  behind  to  undress  Trina  and  put  her  to  bed. 
Miss  Baker  had  come  over  at  once,  and  began  to  cry  herself  at  the 
sight  of  the  dentist's  poor  little  wife.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  what 
the  trouble  was,  and  indeed  it  would  have  been  useless  to  attempt  to 
get  any  coherent  explanation  from  Trina  at  that  time.  Miss  Baker 
had  sent  the  German  woman's  husband  to  get  some  ice  at  one  of 
the  "all-night"  restaurants  of  the  street;  had  kept  cold,  wet  towels 
on  Trina's  head ;  had  combed  and  recombed  her  wonderful  thick  hair ; 
and  had  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  holding  her  hot  hand,  with 
its  poor  maimed  fingers,  waiting  patiently  until  Trina  should  be  able 
to  speak. 

Toward  morning  Trina  awoke — or  perhaps  it  was  a  mere  regain 
ing  of  consciousness — looked  a  moment  at  Miss  Baker,  then  about  the 
room  until  her  eyes  fell  upon  her  trunk  with  its  broken  lock.  Then 
she  turned  over  upon  the  pillow  and  began  to  sob  again.  She 
refused  to  answer  any  of  the  little  dressmaker's  questions,  shaking 
her  head  violently,  her  face  hidden  in  the  pillow. 

By  breakfast  time  her  fever  had  increased  to  such  a  point  that 
Miss  Baker  took  matters  into  her  own  hands  and  had  the  German 
woman  call  a  doctor.  He  arrived*  some  twenty  minutes  later.  He 
was  a  big,  kindly  fellow  who  lived  over  the  drug  store  on  the  cor 
ner.  He  had  a  deep  voice  and  a  tremendous  striding  gait  less 
suggestive  of  a  physician  than  of  a  sergeant  of  a  cavalry  troop. 

By  the  time  of  his  arrival  little  Miss  Baker  had  divined  in- 


McTeague  219 

tuitively  the  entire  trouble.  She  heard  the  doctor's  swinging  tramp 
in  the  entry  below,  and  heard  the  German  woman  saying: 

"Righd  oop  der  stairs,  at  der  back  of  der  halle.  Der  room  mit 
der  door  oppen." 

Miss  Baker  met  the  doctor  at  the  landing;  she  told  him  in  a 
whisper  of  the  trouble. 

"Her  husband's  deserted  her,  I'm  afraid,  doctor,  and  took  all 
of  her  money — a  good  deal  of  it.  It's  about  killed  the  poor  child. 
She  was  out  of  her  head  a  good  deal  of  the  night,  and  now  she's 
got  a  raging  fever." 

The  doctor  and  Miss  Baker  returned  to  the  room  and  entered, 
closing  the  door.  The  big  doctor  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down 
at  Trina  rolling  her  head  from  side  to  side  upon  the  pillow,  her 
face  scarlet,  her  enormous  mane  of  hair  spread  out  on  either  side 
of  her.  The  little  dressmaker  remained  at  his  elbow,  looking  from 
him  to  Trina. 

"Poor  little  woman!"  said  the  doctor;  "poor  little  woman!" 

Miss  Baker  pointed  to  the  trunk,  whispering: 

"See,  there's  where  she  kept  her  savings.  See,  he  broke  the 
lock." 

"Well,  Mrs.  McTeague,"  said  the  doctor,  sitting  down  by  the 
bed,  and  taking  Trina's  wrist,  "a  little  fever,  eh?" 

Trina  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him,  and  then  at  Miss 
Baker.  She  did  not  seem  in  the  least  surprised  at  the  unfamiliar 
faces.  She  appeared  to  consider  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  long,  tremulous  breath,  "I  have  a  fever, 
and  my  head — my  head  aches  and  aches." 

The  doctor  prescribed  rest  and  mild  opiates.  Then  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  fingers  of  Trina's  right  hand.  He  looked  at  them  sharply. 
A  deep  red  glow,  unmistakable  to  a  physician's  eyes,  was  upon 
some  of  them,  extending  from  the  finger  tips  up  to  the  second 
knuckle. 

"Hello,"  he  exclaimed,  "what's  the  matter  here?"  In  fact, 
something  was  very  wrong  indeed.  For  days  Trina  had  noticed  it. 
The  fingers  of  her  right  hand  had  swollen  as  never  before,  aching 
and  discolored.  Cruelly  lacerated  by  McTeague's  brutality  as  they 
were,  she  had  nevertheless  gone  on  about  her  work  on  the  Noah's  ark 
animals,  constantlyjn^ccuitad^wilhJiie^  She 

told  as  much  to  the  doctor  in  answer  to  his  questions.  He  shook  his 
head  with  an  exclamation. 

"Why,   this   is  blood-poisoning,  you  know,"  he  told  her;   "the 


220  McTeague 

worst  kind.     You'll  have  to  have  those  fingers  amputated,  beyond 
a  doubt,  or  lose  the  entire  hand — or  even  worse." 
"And  my  work!"  exclaimed  Trina. 


XIX 

ONE  can  hold  a  scrubbing-brush  with  two  good  fingers  and  the 
stumps  of  two  others  even  if  both  joints  of  the  thumb  are  gone,  but 
J     it  takes  considerable  practice  to  get  used  to  it. 

Trina  became  a  scrub-woman.  She  had  taken  council  of  Selina, 
]  and  through  her  had  obtained  the  position  of  caretaker  in  a  little 
memorial  kindergarten  over  on  Pacific  Street.  Like  Polk  Street,  it 
was  an  accommodation  street,  but  running  through  a  much  poorer 
and  more  sordid  quarter.  Trina  had  a  little  room  over  the  kinder 
garten  schoolroom.  It  was  not  an  unpleasant  room.  It  looked  out 
upon  a  sunny  little  court  floored  with  boards  and  used  as  the  chil 
dren's  playground.  Two  great  cherry  trees  grew  here,  the  leaves 
r  almost  brushing  against  the  window  of  Trina's  room  and  filtering  the 
sunlight  so  that  it  fell  in  round  golden  spots  upon  the  floor  of  the 
room.  "Like  gold  pieces,"  Trina  said  to  herself. 

Trina's  work  consisted  in  taking  care  of  the  kindergarten  rooms, 
scrubbing  the  floors,  washing  the  windows,  dusting  and  airing,  and 
carrying  out  the  ashes.    Besides  this  she  earned  some  five  dollars  a 
month  by  washing  down  the  front  steps  of  some  big  flats  on  Wash 
ington  Street,  and  by  cleaning  out  vacant  houses  after  the  tenants 
had  left.     She  saw  no  one.     Nobody  knew  her.     She  went  about 
her  work  from  dawn  to  dark,  and  often  entire  days  passed  when 
,  she  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  her  own  voice.     She  was  alone,  a 
I  solitary,  abandoned  woman,  lost  in  the  lowest  eddies  of  the  great 
v.  city'stidfi — the  tide  that  always  ebbs. 

When  Trina  liad  been  discharged  from  the  hospital  after  the 
operation  on  her  fingers,  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  world,  alone 
/    with  her  five  thousand  dollars.    The  interest  of  this  would  support 
her,  and  yet  allow  her  to  save  a  little. 

But  for  a  time  Trina  had  thought  of  giving  up  the  fight  alto 
gether  and  of  joining  her  family  in  the  southern  part  of  the  State. 
But  even  while  she  hesitated  about  this  she  received  a  long  letter 
from  her  mother,  an  answer  to  one  she  herself  had  written  just 
before  the  amputation  of  her  right-hand  fingers — the  last  letter  she 
\  would  ever  be  able  to  write.  Mrs.  Sieppe's  letter  was  one  long 


McTeague  221 

lamentation ;  she  had  her  own  misfortunes  to  bewail  as  well  as  those 
of  her  daughter.    The  carpet-cleaning  and  upholstery  business  had 
failed.     Mr.  Sieppe  and  Owgooste  had  left  for  New  Zealand  with 
a  colonization  company,  whither  Mrs.  Sieppe  and  the  twins  were  to      • 
follow  tFem  as  soofTas  the  colony  established  itself.     So  far  from 
helping  Trina  in  her  ill  fortune,  it  was  she,  her  mother,  who  might 
some  day  in  the  near  future  be  obliged  to  turn  to  Trina  for  aid. 
So  Trina  had  given  up  the  idea  of  any  help  from  her  family.     For 
that  matter  she  needed  none.     She  still  had  her  five  thousand,  and\ 
Uncle  Oelbermann  paid  her  the  interest  with  a  machine-like  regu-J 
larity.    Now  that  McTeague  had  left  her,  there  was  one  less  mouth] 
to  feed;  and  with  this  saving,  together  with  the  little  she  could 
earn  as  scrub-woman,  Trina  could  almost  manage  to  make  good  the 
amount  she  lost  by  being  obliged  to  cease  work  upon  the  Noah's 
ark  animals. 

Little  by  little  her  sorrow  over  the  loss  of  her  precious  savings 
overcame  the  grief  of  McTeague's  desertion  of  her.  Her  avarice 
had  grown  to  be  her  one  dominant  passion ;  her  love  of  money  for 
the  money's  sake  brooded  in  her  heart,  driving  out  by  degrees  every 
other  natural  affection.  She_grew  thin  and  meagre;  her  flesh  clove 
tight  to  her  s_niall_skeletpn ;  her--:sniall  Jgale  mouth  and  little  uplifted"' 
chlflTTeV  to  tiave  a  certain /feline >bagerness  of  expression !  liei  lun^r 
narrow  eyes  glistened  continually,  as  if  they  'caught  and  held  the 
glint  oi  metal.  Une  day  as  she  sat  in  he"f  fQOrh,  the  empty  brass 
match^Bblc^and  the  limp  chamois  bag  in  her  hands,  she  suddenly 
exclaimed : 

"I  could  have  forgiven  him  if  he  had  only  gone  away  and  left 
me  my  money.  I  could  have — yes,  I  could  have  forgiven  him  even 
this" — she  looked  at  the  stumps  of  her  fingers.  "But  now,"  her 
teeth  closed  tight  and  her  eyes  flashed,  "now — I'll — never — forgive — 
him — as — long — as — I — live." 

The  empty  bag  and  the  hollow,  light  match-box  troubled  her.  \ 
Day  after  day  she  took  them  from  her  trunk  and  wept  over  them  as 
other  women  weep  over  a  dead  baby's  shoe.  Her  four  hundred 
dollars  were  gone^  were  gone,  were^gone.  She  would  never  see 
them  again.  She^couTd  plainly  see  her  husband  spending  her 
savings  by  handfuls ;  squandering  her  beautiful  gold  pieces  that  she 
had  been  at  such  pains  to  polish  with  soap  and  ashes.  The  thought 
filled  her  with  an  unspeakable  anguish.  She  would  wake  at  night 
from  a  dream  of  McTeague  reveling  down  her  money,  and  ask  of  the 
darkness,  "How  much  did  he  spend  to-day?  How  many  of  the 


222  McTeague 

gold  pieces  are  left?    Has  he  broken  either  of  the  two  twenty-dollar 
pieces  yet?    What  did  he  spend  it  for?" 

The  instant  she  was  out  of  the  hospital  Trina  had  begun  to  save 
again,  but  now  it  was  with  an  eagerness  that  amounted  at  times  to  a 
veritable  frenzy.  She  even  denied  herself  lights  and  fuel  in  order  to 
put  by  a  quarter  or  so,  grudging  every  penny  she  was  obliged  to 
spend.  She  did  her  own  washing  and  cooking.  Finally  she  sold 
her  wedding-dress,  that  had  hitherto  lain  in  the  bottom  of  her 
trunk.  - 

The  day  she  moved  from  Zerkow's  old  house,  she  came  suddenly 
upon  the  dentist's  concertina  under  a  heap  of  old  clothes  in  the 
closet.  Within  twenty  minutes  she  had  sold  it  to  the  dealer  in 
second-hand  furniture,  returning  to  her  room  with  seven  dollars 
in  her  pocket,  happy  for  the  first  time  since  McTeague  had 
left  her. 

But  for  all  that  the  match-box  and  the  bag  refused  to  fill  up; 
after  three  weeks  of  the  most  rigid  economy  they  contained  but 
eighteen  dollars  and  some  small  change.  What  was  that  compared 
with  four  hundred?  Trina  told  herself  that  she  must  have  her 
money  in  hand.  She  longed  to  see  again  the  heap  of  it  upon  her 
work-table,  where  she  could  plunge  her  hands  into  it,  her  face  into 
it,  feeling  the  cool,  smooth  metal  upon  her  cheeks.  At  such  moments 
she  would  see  in  her  imagination  her  wonderful  five  thousand  dol 
lars  piled  in  columns,  shining  and  gleaming  somewhere  at  the  bot 
tom  of  Uncle  Oelbermann's  vault.  She  would  look  at  the  paper  that 
Uncle  Oelbermann  had  given  her,  and  tell  herself  that  it  represented 
five  thousand  dollars.  But  in  the  end  this  ceased  to  satisfy  her,  she 
must  have  the  money  itself.  She  must  have  her  four  hundred 
dollars  back  again,  there  in  her  trunk,  in  her  bag  and  her  match 
box,  where  she  could  touch  it  and  see  it  whenever  she  desired. 

At  length  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  one  day  presented 
herself  before  Uncle  Oelbermann  as  he  sat  in  his  office  in  the  whole 
sale  toy  store,  and  told  him  she  wanted  to  have  four  hundred 
dollars  of  her  money. 

"But  this  is  very  irregular,  you  know,  Mrs.  McTeague,"  said 
the  great  man.  "Not  business-like  at  all." 

But  his  niece's  misfortunes  and  the  sight  of  her  poor  maimed  hand 
appealed  to  him.  He  opened  his  check-book.  "You  understand,  of 
course,"  he  said,  "that  this  will  reduce  the  amount  of  your  interest 
by  just  so  much." 

"I  know,  I  know.    I've  thought  of  that,"  said  Trina. 


McTeague  223 

"Four  hundred,  did  you  say?"  remarked  Uncle  Oelbermann, 
taking-  the  cap  from  his  fountain  pen. 

"Yes,  four  hundred,"  exclaimed  Trina  quickly,  her  eyes 
glistening. 

Trina  cashed  the  check  and  returned  home  with  the  money — all 
in  twenty-dollar  pieces  as  she  had  desired — in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 
For  half  of  that  night  she  sat  up  playing  with  her  money,  counting 
it  and  recounting  it,  polishing  the  duller  pieces  until  they  shone. 
Altogether  there  were  twenty  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces. 

"Oh-h,  you  beauties !"  murmured  Trina,  running  her  palms  over 
them,  fairly  quivering  with  pleasure.  "You  beauties!  Is  there 
anything  prettier  than  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece?  You  dear,  dear 
money !  Oh,  don't  I  love  you !  Mine,  mine,  mine — all  of  you  mine/' 

She  laid  them  out  in  a  row  on  the  ledge  of  the  table,  or  arranged 
them  in  patterns — triangles,  circles,  and  squares — or  built  them  up 
into  a  pyramid  which  she  afterward  overthrew  for  the  sake  of 
hearing  the  delicious  clink  of  the  pieces  tumbling  against  each  other. 
Then  at  last  she  put  them  away  in  the  brass  match-box  and  chamois 
bag,  delighted  beyond  words  that  they  were  once  more  full  and 
heavy. 

Then,  a  few  days  after,  the  thought  of  the  money  still  remaining 
in  Uncle  Oelbermann's  keeping  returned  to  her.  It  was  hers,  all 
hers — all  that  four  thousand  six  hundred.  She  could  have  as  much 
of  it  or  as  little  of  it  as  she  chose.  She  only  had  to  ask.  For  a 
week  Trina  resisted,  knowing  very  well  that  taking  from  her  capital 
was  proportionately  reducing  her  monthly  income.  Then  at  last 
she  yielded. 

"Just  to  make  it  an  even  five  hundred,  anyhow,"  she  told  herself. 
That  day  she  drew  a  hundred  dolb~s  more,  in  twenty-dollar  gold 
pieces  as  before.  From  that  time  frina  began  to  draw  steadily, 
upon  her  capital,  a  little  at  a  time.  It  was  a  passion  with  her,  a 
mania,  a  veritable  mental  disease;  a  temptation  such  as  drunkards 
only  know. 

It  would  come  upon  her  all  of  a  sudden.  While  she  was  about 
her  work,  scrubbing  the  floor  of  some  vacant  house ;  or  in  her  room, 
in  the  morning,  as  she  made  her  coffee  on  the  oil  stove,  or  when  she 
woke  in  the  night,  a  brusque  access  of  cupidity  would  seize  upon 
her.  Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  glistened,  her  breath  came  short. 
At  times  she  would  leave  her  work  just  as  it  was,  put  on  her  old 
bonnet  of  black  straw,  throw  her  shawl  about  her,  and  go  straight 
to  Uncle  Oelbermann's  store  and  draw  against  her  money.  Now  it 


224  McTeague 

would  be  a  hundred  dollars,  now  sixty ;  now  she  would  content  her 
self  with  only  twenty;  and  once,  after  a  fortnight's  abstinence,  she 
permitted  herself  a  positive  debauch  of  five  hundred.  Little  by  little 
she  drew  her  capital  from  Uncle  Oelbermann,  and  little  by  little  her 
original  interest  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  month  dwindled. 

One  day  she  presented  herself  again  in  the  office  of  the  whole 
sale  toy  store. 

"Will  you  let  me  have  a  check  for  two  hundred  dollars,  Uncle 
Oelbermann?"  she  said. 

The  great  man  laid  down  his  fountain  pen  and  leaned  back  in 
his  swivel  chair  with  great  deliberation. 

"I  don't  understand,  Mrs.  McTeague,"  he  said.  "Every  week 
you  come  here  and  draw  out  a  little  of  your  money.  I've  told  you 
that  it  is  not  at  all  regular  or  business-like  for  me  to  let  you  have  it 
this  way.  And  more  than  this,  it's  a  great  inconvenience  to  me  to 
give  you  these  checks  at  unstated  times.  If  you  wish  to  draw  out 
the  whole  amount,  let's  have  some  understanding.  Draw  it  in 
monthly  instalments  of,  say,  five  hundred  dollars,  or  else,"  he 
added  abruptly,  "draw  it  all  at  once,  now,  to-day.  I  would  even 
prefer  it  that  way.  Otherwise  it's — it's  annoying.  Come,  shall  I 
draw  you  a  check  for  thirty-seven  hundred,  and  have  it  over  and 
done  with?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Trina,  with  instinctive  apprehension,  refusing, 
she  did  not  know  why.  "No,  I'll  leave  it  with  you.  I  won't  draw  out 
any  more." 

She  took  her  departure,  but  paused  on  the  pavement  outside  the 
store,  and  stood  for  a  moment  lost  in  thought,  her  eyes  beginning 
to  glisten  and  her  breath  coming  short.  Slowly  she  turned  about 
and  re-entered  the  store;  she  came  back  into  the  office,  and  stood 
trembling  at  the  corner  of  Uncle  Oelbermann's  desk.  He  looked 
up  sharply.  Twice  Trina  tried  to  get  her  voice,  and  when  it  did 
come  to  her,  she  could  hardly  recognize  it.  Between  breaths  she 
said: 

"Yes,  all  right — I'll — you  can  give  me — will  you  give  me  a 
check  for  thirty-seven  hundred?  Give  me  all  of  my  money." 

A  few  hours  later  she  entered  her  little  room  over  the  kinder 
garten,  bolted  the  door  with  shaking  fingers,  and  emptied  a  heavy 
canvas  sack  upon  the  middle  of  her  bed.  Then  she  opened  her  trunk, 
and  taking  thence  the  brass  match-box  and  the  chamois-skin  bag 
added  their  contents  to  the  pile.  Next  she  laid  herself  upon  the  bed 
and  gathered  the  gleaming  heaps  of  gold  pieces  to  her  with  both 


McTeague  225 

arms,  burying  her  face  in  them  with  long  sighs  of  unspeakable 
delight. 

It  was  a  little  past  noon,  and  the  day  was  fine  and  warm.  The 
leaves  of  the  huge  cherry  trees  threw  off  a  certain  pungent  aroma 
that  entered  through  the  open  window,  together  with  long  thin 
shafts  of  golden  sunlight.  Below,  in  the  kindergarten,  the  children 
were  singing  gayly  and  marching  to  the  jangling  of  the  piano. 
Trina  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing.  She  lay  on  her  bed,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  face  buried  in  a  pile  of  gold  that  she  encircled  with  both 
her  arms. 

Trina  even  told  herself  at  last  that  she  was  happy  once  more.  \ 
McTeague  became  a  memory — a  memory  that  faded  a  little  every  j 
day — dim  and  indistinct  in  the  golden  splendor  of  five  thousand 
dollars. 

"And  yet,"  Trina  would  say,  "I  did  love  Mac,  loved  him  dearly, 
only  a  little  while  ago.  Even  when  he  hurt  me,  it  only  made  me 
love  him  more.  How  is  it  I've  changed  so  sudden?  How  could  I 
forget  him  so  soon?  It  must  be  because  he  stole  my  money.  That 
is  it.  I  couldn't  forgive  any  one  that — no,  not  even  my  mother. 
And  I  never — never — will  forgive  him." 

What  had  become  of  her  husband  Trina  did  not  know.  She 
never  saw  any  of  the  old  Polk  Street  people.  There  was  no  way 
she  could  have  news  of  him,  even  if  she  had  cared  to  have  it.  She 
had  her  money,  that  was  the  main  thing.  Her  passion  for  it  ex 
cluded  every  other  sentiment.  There  it  was  in  the  bottom  of  her 
trunk,  in  the  canvas  sack,  the  chamois-skin  bag,  and  the  little  brass 
match-safe.  Not  a  day  passed  that  Trina  did  not  have  it  out  where  ^ 
she  could  see  and  touch  it.  One  evening  she  had  even  spread  all 
the  gold  pieces  between,  the  sheetsrand  had  then  gone  to  bed,  strip 
ping  herself,  ~and  had  slept  all  night  upon  thejnoney,  taking  a 
strange-and  ecstatic  pleasure  in  the  touch  of  the  smooth  flat  pieces 
tfie^etigtfr ~~of  her  entire  body."" 

One  night,  some  three  months  after  she  had  come  to  live  at  the 
kindergarten,  Trina  was  awakened  by  a  sharp  tap  on  the  pane  of 
the  window.     She  sat  up  quickly  in  bed,  her  heartlieatiiig  thickly, 
her  eyes~rolling  wildly  in  the  direction  of  her  trunk.    The  tap  was 
repeated.    Trina  rose  and  went  fearfully  to  the  window.    The  litt!e 
court  below  was  bright  with  moonlight,  and  standing  just  on  the  \ 
edge  of  the  shadow  thrown  by  one  of  the  cherry  trees  was  Mc 
Teague.     A  bunch  of  half-ripe  cherries  was  in  his  hand.    He  wasX 
eating  them  and  throwing  the  pits  at  the  window.    As  he  caught 


McTeague 

sight  of  her,  he  made  an  eager  sign  for  her  to  raise  the  sash*  Re 
luctant  and  wondering,  Trina  obeyed,  and  the  dentist  came  quickly 
forward.  He  was  wearing  a  pair  of  blue  overalls;  a  navy-blue 
flannel  shirt  without  a  cravat ;  an  old  coat,  faded,  rain-washed,  and 
ripped  at  the  seams ;  and  his  woolen  cap. 

"Say,  Trina/'  he  exclaimed,  his  heavy  bass  voice  pitched  just 
above  a  whisper,  "let  me  in,  will  you,  huh?  Say,  will  you?  I'm 
regularly  starving,  and  I  haven't  slept  in  a  Christian  bed  for  two 
weeks." 

At  sight  of  him  standing  there  in  the  moonlight,  Trina  could 
only  think  of  him  as  the  man  who  had  beaten  and  bitten  her,  had 
deserted  her  and  stolen  her  money,  had  made  her  suffer  as  she  had 
never  suffered  before  in  all  her  life.  Now  that  he  had  spent  the 
money  that  he  had  stolen  from  her,  he  was  whining  to  come  back — 
so  that  he  might  steal  more,  no  doubt.  Once  in  her  room  he  could 
not  help  but  smell  out  her  five  thousand  dollars.  Her  indignation 
rose. 

)"No,"  she  whispered  back  at  him.    "No,  I  will  not  let  you  in." 
"But  listen  here,  Trina,  I  tell  you  I  am  starving,  regularly— 
"Hoh !"  interrupted  Trina  scornfully.    "A  man  can't  starve  with 
four  hundred  dollars,  I  guess." 

"Well— well— I— well— "  faltered  the  dentist.  "Never  mind 
now.  Give  me  something  to  eat,  an'  let  me  in  an'  sleep.  I've  been 
sleeping  in  the  Plaza  for  the  last  ten  nights,  and  say,  I — Damn  it, 
Trina,  I  ain't  had  anything  to  eat  since — " 

"Where's  the  four  hundred  dollars  you  robbed  me  of  when  you 
deserted  me."  returned  Trina  coldly. 

"Well,  I've  spent  it,"  growled  the  dentist.  "But  you  can't  see 
me  starve,  Trina,  no  matter  what's  happened.  Give  me  a  little 
money,  then." 

"I'll  see  you  starve  before  you  get  any  more  of  my  money." 

The  dentist  stepped  back  a  pace  and  stared  up  at  her,  wonder- 
stricken.  His  face  was  lean  and  pinched.  Never  had  the  jaw  bone 
looked  so  enormous,  nor  the  square-cut  head  so  huge.  The  moon 
light  made  deep  black  shadows  in  the  shrunken  cheeks. 

"Huh!"  asked  the  dentist,  puzzled.    "What  did  you  say?" 

"I  won't  give  you  any  money-r-never  again — not  a  cent." 

"But  do  you  know  that  I'm  hungry?" 

"Well,  I've  been  hungry  myself.     Besides,  I  don't  believe  you." 

"Trina,  I  ain't  had  a  thing  to  eat  since  yesterday  morning; 
that's  God's  truth.  Even  if  I  did  get  off  with  your  money,  you 


McTeague  227 

can't  see  me  starve,  can  you?  You  can't  see  me  walk  the  streets 
all  night  because  I  ain't  got  a  place  to  sleep.  Will  you  let  me  in? 
Say,  will  you?  Huh?" 

"No." 

"Well,  will  you  give  me  some  money  then — just  a  little?  Give 
me  a  dollar.  Give  me  half  a  dol —  Say,  give  me  a  dime,  an'  I  can 
get  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"No." 

The  dentist  paused  and  looked  at  her  with  curious  intentness, 
bewildered,  nonplussed. 

"Say,  you — you  must  be  crazy,  Trina.  I — I — wouldn't  let  a  dog 
go  hungry." 

"Not  even  if  he'd  bitten  you,  perhaps." 

The  dentist  stared  again. 

There  was  another  pause.  McTeague  looked  up  at  her  in  silence, 
a  mean  and  vicious  twinkle  coming  into  his  small  eyes.  He  ut 
tered  a  low  exclamation,  and  then  checked  himself. 

"Well,  look  here,  for  the  last  time.  I'm  starving.  I've  got  no 
where  to  sleep.  Will  you  give  me  some  money,  or  something  to 
eat?  Will  you  let  me  in?" 

"No — no — no." 

Trina  could  fancy  she  almost  saw  the  brassy  glint  in  her  hus 
band's  eyes.  He  raised  one  enormous  lean  fist.  Then  he  growled:  ^ 

"If  I  had  hold  of  you  for  a  minute,  by  God,  I'd  make  you  dance. 
An'  I  will  yet,  I  will  yet.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  that." 

He  turned  about,  the  moonlight  showing  like  a  layer  of  snow 
upon  his  massive  shoulders.  Trina  watched  him  as  he  passed  under 
the  shadow  of  the  cherry  trees  and  crossed  the  little  court.  She 
heard  his  great  feet  grinding  on  the  board  flooring.  He  disap 
peared. 

Miser  though  jsjiejwas^  Trin^w^^nly_Jiuman,  and  the  echo  of 
the  dentist's  Tieavy  feet  had  not  died  away  before  she  began  to  be 
sorry  for  what  she  had  done.    She  stood  by  the  open  window  in  her   j 
nightgown,  her  finger  upon  her  lips. 

"He  did  look  pinched,"  she  said  half  aloud.  "(Maybe  he  was 
hungry.  I  ought  to  have  given  him  something.  I  wish  I  had,  I 
wish  I  had.  Oh,"  she  cried,  suddenly,  with  a  frightened  gesture  of 
both  hands,  "what  have  I  come  to  be  that  I  would  see  Mac — my 
husband — that  I  would  see  him  starve  rather  than  give  him  money? 
No,  no.  It's  too  dreadful.  I  will  give  him  some.  I'll  send  it  to 
him  to-morrow.  Where  ? — well,  he'll  come  back."  She  leaned  from 


228  McTeague 

the  window  and  called  as  loudly  as  she  dared,  "Mac,  oh,  Mac." 
There  was  no  answer. 

When  McTeague  had  told  Trina  he  had  been  without  food  for 
nearly  two  days  he  was  speaking  the  truth.  The  week  before  he  had 
spent  the  last  of  the  four  hundred  dollars  in  the  bar  of  a  sailors' 
lodging-house  near  the  water  front,  and  since  that  time  had  lived  a 
veritable  hand-to-mouth  existence. 

He  had  spent  her  money  here  and  there  about  the  city  in  royal 
fashion,  absolutely  reckless  of  the  morrow,  feasting  and  drinking 
for  the  most  part  with  companions  he  picked  up  heaven  knows 
where,  acquaintances  of  twenty-four  hours,  whose  names  he  forgot 
in  two  days.  Then  suddenly  he  found  himself  at  the  end  of  his 
money.  He  no  longer  had  any  friends.  Hunger  rode  him  and 
roweled  him.  He  was  no  longer  well  fed,  comfortable.  There 
was  no  longer  a  warm  place  for  him  to  sleep.  He  went  back  to 
Polk  Street  in  the  evening,  walking  on  the  dark  side  of  the  street, 
lurking  in  the  shadows,  ashamed  to  have  any  of  his  old-time  friends 
see  him.  He  entered  Zerkow's  old  house  and  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  room  Trina  and  he  had  occupied.  It  was  empty. 

Next  day  he  went  to  Uncle  Oelbermann's  store  and  asked  news 
of  Trina.  Trina  had  not  told  Uncle  Oelbermann  of  McTeague's 
brutalities,  giving  him  other  reasons  to  explain  the  loss  of  her  fin 
gers  ;  neither  had  she  told  him  of  her  husband's  robbery.  So  when 
the  dentist  had  asked  where  Trina  could  be  found,  Uncle  Oelber 
mann,  believing  that  McTeague  was  seeking  a  reconciliation,  had 
told  him  without  hesitation,  and,  he  added : 

"She  was  in  here  only  yesterday  and  drew  out  the  balance  of  her 
money.  She's  been  drawing  against  her  money  for  the  last  month  or 
so.  She's  got  it  all  now,  I  guess." 

"Ah,  she's  got  it  all." 

The  dentist  went  away  from  his  bootless  visit  to  his  wife  shaking 
with  rage,  hating  her  with  all  the  strength  of  a  crude  and  primitive 
nature.  He  clinched  his  fists  till  his  knuckles  whitened,  his  teeth 
ground  furiously  upon  one  another. 

"Ah,  if  I  had  hold  of  you  once,  I'd  make  you  dance.  She  had 
five  thousand  dollars  in  that  room,  while  I  stood  there,  not  twenty 
feet  away,  and  told  her  I  was  starving,  and  she  wouldn't  give  me  a 
dime  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee  with ;  not  a  dime  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Oh,  if  I  once  get  my  hands  on  you!"  His  wrath  strangled  him. 
He  clutched  at  the  darkness  in  front  of  him,  his  breath  fairly  whis 
tling  between  his  teeth. 


McTeague  229 

That  night  he  walked  the  streets  until  the  morning,  wondering 
what  now  he  was  to  do  to  fight  the  wolf  away.  The  morning  of 
the  next  day  toward  ten  o'clock  he  was  on  Kearney  Street,  still 
walking,  still  tramping  the  streets,  since  there  was  nothing  else  for 
him  to  do.  By  and  by  he  paused  on  a  corner  near  a  music  store, 
finding  a  momentary  amusement  in  watching  two  or  three  men 
loading  a  piano  upon  a  dray.  Already  half  its  weight  was  supported 
by  the  dray's  backboard.  One  of  the  men,  a  big  mulatto,  almost 
hidden  under  the  mass  of  glistening  rosewood,  was  guiding  its 
course,  while  the  other  two  heaved  and  tugged  in  the  rear.  Some 
thing  in  the  street  frightened  the  horses  and  they  shied  abruptly. 
The  end  of  the  piano  was  twitched  sharply  from  the  backboard. 
There  was  a  cry,  the  mulatto  staggered  and  fell  with  the  falling 
piano,  and  its  weight  dropped  squarely  upon  his  thigh,  which  broke 
with  a  resounding  crack. 

An  hour  later  McTeague  had  found  his  job.  The  music  store 
engaged  him  as  handler  at  six  dollars  a  week.  McTeague's  enor 
mous  strength,  useless  all  his  life,  stood  him  in  good  stead  at  last. 

He  slept  in  a  tiny  back  room  opening  from  the  storeroom  of  the 
music  store.     He  was  in  some  sense  a  watchman  as  well  as  han 
dler,  and  went  the  rounds  of  the  store  twice  every  night.    His  room 
was  a  box  of  a  place  that  reeked  with  odors  of  stale  tobacco  smoke. 
The  former  occupant  had  papered  the  walls  with  newspapers  and 
had  pasted  up  figures  cut  out  from  the  posters  of  some  Kiralfy  bal-  x  ;  \ 
let,  very  gaudy.     By  the  one  window,  chittering  all  day  in  its  little  \ 
gilt  prison,  hung  the  canary  bird,  a  tiny  atom  of  life  that  McTeague  J 
still  clung  to  with  a  strange  obstinacy. 

McTeague  drank  a  good  deal  of  whiskey  in  these  days,  but  the 
only  effect  it  had  upon  him  was  to  increase  the  viciousness  and  bad 
temper  that  had  developed  in  him  since  the  beginning  of  his  misfor 
tunes.  He  terrorized  his  fellow-handlers,  powerful  men  though 
they  were.  For  a  gruff  word,  for  an  awkward  movement  in  loading 
the  pianos,  for  a  surly  look  or  a  muttered  oath,  the  dentist's  elbow 
would  crook  and  his  hand  contract  to  a  mallet-like  fist.  As  often  as 
not  the  blow  followed,  colossal  in  its  force,  swift  as  the  leap  of  the 
piston  from  its  cylinder. 

His  hatred  of  Trina  increased  from  day  to  day.    He'd  make  he^ 
dance  yet.    Wait  only  till  he  got  his  hands  upon  her.    She'd  let  him 
starve,  would  she?    She'd  turn  him  out  of  doors  while  she  hid  her 
five  thousand  dollars  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk.    Aha,  he  would  see 
about  that  some  day.     She  couldn't  make  small  of  him.     Ah,  no. 


230  McTeague 

She'd  dance  all  right— all  right.  McTeague  was  not  an  imagina 
tive  man  by  nature,  but  he  would  lie  awake  nights,  his  clumsy  wits 
galloping  and  frisking  under  the  lash  of  the  alcohol,  and  fancy  him 
self  thrashing  his  wife,  till  a  sudden  frenzy  of  rage  would  overcome 
him,  and  he  would  shake  all  over,  rolling  upon  the  bed  and  biting 
the  mattress. 

On  a  certain  day,  about  a  week  after  Christmas  of  that  year, 
McTeague  was  on  one  of  the  top  floors  of  the  music  store,  where 
the  second-hand  instruments  were  kept,  helping  to  move  about  and 
rearrange  some  old  pianos.  As  he  passed  by  one  of  the  counters 
he  paused  abruptly,  his  eye  caught  by  an  object  that  was  strangely 
familiar. 

"Say,"  he  inquired,  addressing  the  clerk  in  charge,  "say,  where'd 
this  come  from?" 

"Why,  let's  see.  We  got  that  from  a  second-hand  store  up  on 
Polk  Street,  I  guess.  It's  a  fairly  good  machine;  a  little  tinkering 
with  the  stops  and  a  bit  of  shellac,  and  we'll  make  it  about  's  good 
as  new.  Good  tone.  See."  And  the  clerk  drew  a  long,  sonorous 
wail  from  the  depths  of  McTeague's  old  concertina. 

"Well,  it's  mine,"  growled  the  dentist. 

The  other  laughed.    "It's  yours  for  eleven  dollars." 

"It's  mine,"  persisted  McTeague.    "I  want  it." 

"Go  'long  with  you,  Mac.    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  it's  mine,  that's  what  I  mean.  You  got  no  right  to 
it.  It  was  jioleib  from  me,  that's  what  I  mean,"  he  added,  a  sullen 
anger  flaming,  irp  in  his  little  eyes. 

The  clerk  raised  a  shoulder  and  put  the  concertina  on  an  upper 
shelf. 

"You  talk  to  the  boss  about  that,  t'ain't  none  of  my  affair.  If 
you  want  to  buy  it,  it's  eleven  dollars." 

The  dentist  had  been  paid  off  the  day  before  and  had  four  dol 
lars  in  his  wallet  at  the  moment.  He  gave  the  money  to  the  clerk. 

"Here,  there's  part  of  the  money.  You — you  put  that  concei  tina 
aside  for  me,  an'  I'll  give  you  the  rest  in  a  week  or  so-— I'll  give  it 
to  you  to-morrow,"  he  exclaimed,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea. 

McTeague  had  sadly  missed  his  concertina.  Sunday  afternoons, 
when  there  was  no  work  to  be  dbne,  he  was  accustomed  to  lie  flat 
on  his  back  on  his  springless  bed  in  the  little  room  in  the  rear  of  the 
music  store,  his  coat  and  shoes  off,  reading  the  paper,  drinking 
steam  beer  from  a  pitcher,  and  smoking  his  pipe.  But  he  could  no 
longer  play  his  six  lugubrious  airs  upon  his  concertina,  and  it  was 


McTeague  23 1 

a  deprivation.  He  often  wondered  where  it  had  gone.  It  had  been 
lost,  no  doubt,  in  the  general  wreck  of  his  fortunes.  Once,  even, 
tre  dentist  had  taken  a  concertina  from  the  lot  kept  by  the  music 
store.  It  was  a  Sunday  and  no  one  was  about.  But  he  found  he 
could  not  play  upon  it.  The  stops  were  arranged  upon  a  system 
he  did  not  understand. 

Now  his  own  concertina  was  come  back  to  him.  He  would  buy 
it  back.  He  had  given  the  clerk  four  dollars.  He  knew  where  he 
would  get  the  remaining  seven. 

The  clerk  had  told  him  the  concertina  had  been  sold  on  Polk 
Street  to  the  second-hand  store  there.  Trina  had  sold  it.  Mc 
Teague  knew  it.  Trina  had  sold  his  concertina — had  stolen  it  and 
sold  it — his  concertina,  his  beloved  concertina,  that  he  had  had  all 
his  life.  Why,  barring  the  canary,  there  was  not  one  of  all  his  be 
longings  that  McTeague  had  cherished  more  dearly.  His  steel 
engraving  of  "Lorenzo  de'  Medici  and  his  Court"  might  be  lost,  his 
stone  pug  dog  might  go,  but  his  concertina ! 

"And  she  sold  it — stole  it  from  me  and  sold  it.  Just  because  I 
happened  to  forget  to  take  it  along  with  me.  Well,  we'll  just  see 
about  that.'  You'll  give  me  the  money  to  buy  it  back,  or — " 

His  rage  loomed  big  within  him.  His  hatred  of  Trina  came  back 
upon  him  like  a  returning  surge.  He  saw  her  small,  trim  mouth, 
her  narrow  blue  eyes,  her  black  mane  of  hair,  and  uptilted  chin,  and 
hated  her  the  more  because  of  them.  Aha,  he'd  show  her;  he'd 
make  her  dance.  He'd  get  that  seven  dollars  from  her,  or  he'd  know 
the  reason  why.  He  went  through  his  work  that  day,  heaving  and 
hauling  at  the  ponderous  pianos,  handling  them  with  the  ease  of  a 
lifting  crane,  impatient  for  the  coming  of  evening,  when  he  could  be 
left  to  his  own  devices.  As  often  as  he  had  a  moment  to  spare  he 
went  down  the  street  to  the  nearest  saloon  and  drank  a  pony  of 
whiskey.  Now  and  then  as  he  fought  and  struggled  with  the  vast 
masses  of  ebony,  rosewood,  and  mahogany  on  the  upper  floor  of  the 
music  store,  raging  and  chafing  at  their  inertness  and  unwillingness, 
while  the  whiskey  pirouetted  in  his  brain,  he  would  mutter  to  himself: 

"An'  /  got  to  do  this — I  got  to  work  like  a  dray  horse  while  she 
sits  at  home  by  her  stove  and  counts  her  money — and  sells  my  con 
certina." 

Six  o'clock  came.  Instead  of  supper,  McTeague  drank  some 
more  whiskey,  five  ponies  in  rapid  succession.  After  supper  he  was 
obliged  to  go  out  with  the  dray  to  deliver  a  concert  grand  at  the 
Odd  Fellows'  Hall,  where  a  piano  "recital"  was  to  take  place. 


McTeague 

"Ain't  you  coming  back  with  us?"  asked  one  of  the  handlers  as 
he  climbed  upon  the  driver's  seat  after  the  piano  had  been  put  in 

place. 

"No,  no,"  returned  the  dentist,  "I  got  something  else  to  do. 
The  brilliant  lights  of  a  saloon  near  the  City  Hall  caught  his  eye. 
He  decided  he  would  have  another  drink  of  whiskey.     It  was  about 
eight  o'clock. 

The  following  day  was  to  be  a  fete  day  at  the  kindergarten,  the 
Christmas  and  New  Year  festivals  combined.  All  that  afternoon  the 
little  two-story  building  on  Pacific  Street  had  been  filled  with  a 
number  of  grand  ladies  of  the  Kindergarten  Board,  who  were  hang 
ing  up  ropes  of  evergreen  and  sprays  of  holly,  and  arranging  a  great 
Christmas  tree  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  ring  in  the  school 
room.  The  whole  place  was  pervaded  with  a  pungent,  piny  odor. 
Trina  had  been  very  busy  since  the  early  morning,  coming  and  go 
ing  at  everybody's  call,  now  running  down  the  street  after  another 
tack-hammer  or  a  fresh  supply  of  cranberries,  now  tying  together 
the  ropes  of  evergreen  and  passing  them  up  to  one  of  the  grand 
ladies  as  she  carefully  balanced  herself  on  a  step-ladder.  By  even 
ing  everything  was  in  place.  As  the  last  grand  lady  left*  the  school, 
she  gave  Trina  an  extra  dollar  for  her  work,  and  said : 

"Now,  if  you'll  just  tidy  up  here,  Mrs.  McTeague,  I  think  that 

will  be  all.     Sweep  up  the  pine  needles  here — you  see  they  are  all 

„  over  the  floor — and  look  through  all  the  rooms,  and  tidy  up  general- 

.  ly.    Good-night — and  a  Happy  New  Year,"  she  cried  pleasantly  as 

she  went  out. 

Trina  put  the  dollar  away  in  her  trunk  before  she  did  anything 
else  and  cooked  herself  a  bit  of  supper.  Then  she  came  down 
stairs  again. 

The  kindergarten  was  not  large.  On  the  lower  floor  were  but 
two  rooms,  the  main  schoolroom  and  another  room,  a  cloakroom, 
very  small,  where  the  children  hung  their  hats  and  coats.  This 
cloakroom  opened  off  the  back  of  the  main  schoolroom.  Trina  cast 
a  critical  glance  into  both  of  these  rooms.  There  had  been  a  great 
deal  of  going  and  coming  in  them  during  the  day,  and  she  decided 
that  the  first  thing  to  do  would  be  to  scrub  the  floors.  She  went  up 
again  to  her  room  overhead  arrd  heated  some  water  over  her  oil- 
stove  ;  then,  re-descending,  set  to  work  vigorously. 

_Bv  nine  o'clock  she  had  almost  finished  with  the  schoolroom. 
She  was  down  on  her  hands  and  knees  in  the  midst  of  a  steaming 
muck  of  soapy  water.  On  her  feet  were  a  pair  of  man's  shoes 


McTeague  233 

fastened  with  buckles.  A  dirty  cotton  gown,  damp  with  the  water, 
clung  about  her  shapeless,  stunted  figure.  From  time  to  time  she 
sat  back  on  her  heels  to  ease  the  strain  of  her  position,  and  with  one 
smoking  hand,  white  and  parboiled  with  the  hot  water,  brushed 
her  hair,  already  streaked  with  gray,  out  of  her  weazened,  pale  face 
and  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

It  was  very  quiet.  A  gas-jet  without  a  globe  lighted  up  the 
place  with  a  crude,  raw  light.  The  cat  who  lived  on  the  premises, 
preferring  to  be  dirty  rather  than  to  be  wet,  had  got  into  the  coal 
scuttle,  and  over  its  rim  watched  her  sleepily  with  a  long,  compla 
cent  purr. 

All  at  once  he  stopped  purring,  leaving  an  abrupt  silence  in 
the  air  like  the  sudden  shutting  off  a  stream  of  water,  while 
his  eyes  grew  wide,  two  lambent  disks  of  yellow  in  the  heap  of 
black  fur. 

"Who  is  there  ?"  cried  Trina,  sitting  back  on  her  heels.  In  the 
stillness  that  succeeded,  the  water  dripped  from  her  hands  with  the 
steady  tick  of  a  clock.  Then  a  brutal  fist  swung  open  the  street 
door  of  the  schoolroom  and  McTeague  came  in.  He  was  drunk; 
not  with  that  drunkenness  which  is  stupid,  maudlin,  wavering  on  its 
feet,  but  with  that  which  is  alert,  unnaturally  intelligent,  vicious, 
perfectly  steady,  deadly  wicked.  Trina  only  had  to  look  once  at 
him,  and  in  an  instant,  with  some  strange  sixth  sense,  born  of  the 
occasion,  knew  what  she  had  to  expect. 

^She  jumped  up  ami  ran  from'Tiimmfb  the  little  cloakroom.  She 
locked  and  bolted  the  door  after  her,  and  leaned  her  weight  against 
it,  panting  and  trembling,  every  nerve  shrinking  and  quivering  with 
the  fear  of  him. 

McTeague  put  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door  outside  and 
opened  it,  tearing  off  the  lock  and  bolt  guard,  and  sending  her  stag 
gering  across  the  room. 

"Mac,"  she  cried  to  him,  as  he  came  in,  speaking  with  horrid 
rapidity,  cringing  and  holding  out  her  hands,  "Mac,  listen.  Wait  a 
minute — look  here — listen  here.  It  wasn't  my  fault.  1*11  give  you 
some  money.  You  can  come  back.  I'll  do  anything  you  want. 
Won't  you  just  listen  to  me?  Oh,  don't!  I'll  scream.  I  can't  help 
it,  you  know.  The  people  will  hear." 

McTeague  came  toward  her  slowly,  his  immense  feet  dragging 
and  grinding  on  the  floor;  his  enormous  fists,  hard  as  wooden  mal 
lets,  swinging  at  his  sides.  Trina  backed  from  him  to  the  corner 
of  the  room,  cowering  before  him,  holding  her  elbow  crooked  in 


234  McTeague 

front  of  her  face,  watching  him  with  fearful  intentness,  ready  to 
dodge. 

"I  want  that  money,"  he  said,  pausing  in  front  of  her. 

"What  money?"  cried  Trina. 

"I  want  that  money.  You  got  it — that  five  thousand  dollars.  I 
want  every  nickel  of  it!  You  understand?" 

"I  haven't  it.    It  isn't  here.    Uncle  Oelbermann's  got  it." 

"That's  a  lie.  He  told  me  that  you  came  and  got  it.  YouVe 
had  it  long  enough ;  now  /  want  it.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Mac,  I  can't  give  you  that  money.  I — I  won't  give  it  to  you," 
Trina  cried,  with  sudden  resolution. 

"Yes,  you  will.    You'll  give  me  every  nickel  of  it." 

"No,  no." 

"You  ain't  going  to  make  small  of  me  this  time.  Give  me  that 
money." 

"No" 

"For  the  last  time,  will  you  give  me  that  money  ?" 

"No." 

"You  won't,  huh  ?    You  won't  give  me  it  ?    For  the  last  time." 

"No,  no." 

Usually  the  dentist  was  slow  in  his  movements,  but  now  the 
alcohol  had  awakened  in  him  an  ape-like  agility.  He  kept  his  small 
dull  eyes  upon  her,  and  all  at  once  sent  his  fist  into_jjie_middle_of 
her  face  with  the  suddenness  of  a  relaxed  spring. 

Beside  herself  with  terror,  Trjna_tiirned  and  fought  him  back; 
fought  for  herjmiserable  life  with  the  exasperation  and  strength  of 
a  harassed  cat ;  and  with  such  energy  and  such  wild,  unnatural  force, 
th~at  even  McTeague  "for  the  mornenf  cfrew :T>acEF  TfonTHer."  But  her 
resistance  was  the  one  thing  to  drive  him  to  the  top  of  his  fury. 
He  came  back  at  her  again,  his  eyes  drawn  to  two  fine  twinkling 
points,  and  his  enormous  fists,  clinched  till  the  knuckles  whitened, 
raised  in  the  air. 

Then  it  became  abominable. 

In  the  schoolroom  outside,  behind  the  coal  scuttle,  the  cat  listened 
to  the  sounds  of  stamping  and  struggling  and  the  muffled  noise  of 
blows,  wildly  terrified,  his  eyes  bulging  like  brass  knobs.  At  last 
the  sounds  stopped  on  a  suddeh ;  he  heard  nothing  more.  Then 
McTeague  came  out,  closing  the  door.  The  cat  followed  him 
with  distended  eyes  as  he  crossed  the  room  and  disappeared  through 
the  street  door. 

The  dentist  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  sidewalk,  looking  care- 


McTeague  235 

fully  up  and  down  the  street.  It  was  deserted  and  quiet.  He  turned 
sharply  to  the  right  and  went  down  a  narrow  passage  that  led  into 
the  little  courtyard  behind  the  school.  A  candle  was  burning  in 
Trina's  room.  He  went  up  by  the  outside  stairway  and  entered. 

The  trunk  stood  locked  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  The  dentist 
took  the  lid-lifter  from  the  little  oil  stove,  put  it  underneath  the 
lock-clasp  and  wrenched  it  open.  Groping  beneath  a  pile  of  dresses 
he  found  the  chamois-skin  bag,  the  little  brass  match-box,  and,  at 
the  very  bottom,  carefully  thrust  into  one  corner,  the  canvas  sack 
crammed  to  the  mouth  with  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces.  He  emptied 
the  chamois-skin  bag  and  the  match-box  into  the  pockets  of  his 
trousers.  But  the  canvas  sack  was  too  bulky  to  hide  about  his 
clothes. 

"I  guess  I'll  just  naturally  have  to  carry  you"  he  muttered. 
He  blew  out  the  candle,  closed  the  door,  and  gained  the  street 
again. 

The  dentist  crossed  the  city,  going  back  to  the  music  store.  It 
was  a  little  after  eleven  o'clock.  The  night  was  moonless,  filled 
with  a  gray  blur  of  faint  light  that  seemed  to  come  from  all  quar 
ters  of  the  horizon  at  once.  From  time  to  time  there  were  sudden 
explosions  of  a  southeast  wind  at  the  street  corners.  McTeague 
went  on,  slanting  his  head  against  the  gusts,  to  keep  his  cap  from 
blowing  off,  carrying  the  sack  close  to  his  side.  Once  he  looked 
critically  at  the  sky. 

"I  bet  it'll  rain  to-morrow,"  he  muttered,  "if  this  wind  works 
round  to  the  south." 

Oncejn_his  little  den  behind  the  music  store,  he  washed  his 
hands 'and  forearms,  and  put  on  his  working  clothes,  blue  overalls 
and  a  jumper,  over  cheap  trousers  and  vest.  Then  he  got  together 
his  small  belongings — an  old  campaign  hat,  a  pair  of  boots,  a  tin 
of  tobacco,  and  a  pinchbeck  bracelet  which  he  had  found  one  Sun 
day  in  the  Park,  and  which  he  believed  to  be  valuable.  He  stripped 
his  blanket  from  his  bed  and  rolled  up  in  it  all  these  objects,  to 
gether  with  the  canvas  sack,  fastening  the  roll  with  a  half  hitch 
such  as  miners  use,  the.  , instincts  of  the  old-time  car-boy  coming 
back  to  him  in  his  present  confusion  of  mind.  He  changed  his  pipe 
and  his  knife — a  huge  jack-knife  with  a  yellowed  bone  handle — to 
the.  pockets  of  his  overalls. 

Then  at  last  he  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  door,  holding  up  the 
lamp  before  blowing  it  out,  looking  about  to  make  sure  he  was  ready 
to  go.  The  wavering  light  woke  his  canary.  It  stirred  and  began 


McTeague 

to  chitter  feebly,  very  sleepy  and  cross  at  being  awakened.  Mc 
Teague  started,  staring  at  it,  and  reflecting.  He  believed  that 
it  would  be  a  long  time  before  any  one  came  into  that  room  again. 
The  canary  would  be  days  without  food;  it  was  likely  it  would 
starve,  would  die  there,  hour  by  hour,  in  its  little  gilt  prison.  Mc 
Teague  resolved  to  take  it  with  him.  He  took  down  the  cage, 
touching  it  gently  with  his  enormous  hands,  and  tied  a  couple 
of  sacks  about  it  to  shelter  the  little  bird  from  the  sharp  night 
wind. 

Then  he  went  out,  locking  all  the  doors  behind  him,  and  turned 
toward  the  ferry  slips.  The  boats  had  ceased  running  hours  ago, 
but  he  told  himself  that  by  waiting  till  four  o'clock  he  could  get 
across  the  bay  on  the  tug  that  took  over  the  morning  papers. 


Trina  lay  unconscious,  just  as  she  had  fallen  under  the  last  of 
McTeague's  blows,  her  body  twitching  with  an  occasional  hic 
cough  that  stirred  the  pool  of  blood  in  which  she  lay  face  down 
ward.  Toward  morning^she  died  with  a  rapid  series  of  hiccoughs 
that  sounded  like  a  piece  of  clockwork  running  down. 

The  thing  had  been  done  in  the  cloakroom  where  the  kinder 
garten  children  hung  their  hats  and  coats.  There  was  no  other 
entrance  except  by  going  through  the  main  schoolroom.  McTeague 
going  out  had  shut  the  door  of  the  cloakroom,  but  had  left  the 
street  door  open ;  so  when  the  children  arrived  in  the  morning,  they 
entered  as  usual. 

About  half-past  eight,  two  or  three  five-year-olds,  one  a  little 
colored  girl,  came  into  the  schoolroom  of  the  kindergarten  with  a 
great  chatter  of  voices,  going  across  to  the  cloakroom  to  hang  up 
their  hats  and  coats  as  they  had  been  taught. 

Half-way  across  the  room  one  of  them  stopped  and  put  her  small 
nose  in  the  air,  crying,  "Um-o-o,  what  a  funnee  smell !"  The  others 
began  to  sniff  the  air  as  well,  and  one,  the  daughter  of  a  butcher, 
exclaimed,  "  'Tsmells  like  my  pa's  shop,"  adding  in  the  next  breath, 
"Look,  what's  the  matter  with  the  kittee?" 

In  fact,  the  cat  was  acting  strangely.  He  lay  quite  flat  on  the 
floor,  his  nose  pressed  close  to  the  crevice  under  the  door  of  the 
little  cloakroom,  winding  his  tail  slowly  back  and  forth,  excited, 
very  eager.  At  times  he  would  draw  back  and  make  a  strange  little 
clacking  noise  down  in  his  throat. 

"Ain't  he  funnee?"  said  the  little  girl  again.     The  cat  slunk 


McTeague  237 

swiftly  away  as  the  children  came  up.  Then  the  tallest  of  the  little 
girls  swung  the  door  of  the  little  cloakroom  wide  open  and  they 
all  ran  in. 

XX 

THE  day  was  very  hot,  and  the  silence  of  high  noon  lay  close 
and  thick  between  the  steep  slopes  of  the  canons  like  an  invisible, 
muffling  fluid.  At  intervals  the  drone  of  an  insect  bored  the  air  and 
trailed  slowly  to  silence  again.  Everywhere  were  pungent,  aro 
matic  smells.  The  vast,  moveless  heat  seemed  to  distil  countless 
odors  from  the  brush — odors  of  warm  sap,  of  pine  needles,  and  of 
tar-weed,  and  above  all  the  medicinal  odor  of  witch  hazel.  As  far 
as  one  could  look,  uncounted  multitudes  of  trees  and  manzanita 
bushes  were  quietly  and  motionlessly  growing,  growing,  growing. 
A  tremendous,  immeasurable  Life  pushed  steadily  heavenward  with 
out  a  sound,  without  a  motion.  At  turns  of  the  road,  on  the  higher 
points,  canons  disclosed  themselves  far  away,  gigantic  grooves  in 
the  landscape,  deep  blue  in  the  distance,  opening  one  into  another 
ocean-deep,  silent,  huge,  and  suggestive  of  colossal  primeval  forces 
held  in  reserve.  At  their  bottoms  they  were  solid,  massive ;  on  their 
crests  they  broke  delicately  into  fine  serrated  edges  where  the  pines 
and  redwoods  outlined  their  million  of  tops  against  the  high  white 
horizon.  Here  and  there  the  mountains  lifted  themselves  out  of 
the  narrow  river  beds  in  groups  like  giant  lions  rearing  their  heads 
after  drinking.  The  enjire  region  was  untamed.  In  some  places 
east  of  the  Mississippi  ^ature5  is  cosey,  intimate,  small,  and  homelike, 
like  a  good-natured  housewife.  In  Placer  County,  California,  she  is 
a  vast,  unconquered  ftrtft^  of  the  Pliocene  epoch,  savage,  sullen, 
and  magnificently  indifferent  to  man. 

But  there  were  men  in  these  mountains,  like  lice  on  mammoths' 
hides,  fighting  them  stubbornly,  now  with  hydraulic  "monitors,"  now 
with  drill  and  dynamite,  boring  into  the  vitals  of  them,  or  tearing 
away  great  yellow  gravelly  scars  in  the  flanks  of  them,  sucking  their 
blood,  extracting  gold. 

Here  and  there  at  long  distances  upon  the  canon  sides  rose  the 
headgear  of  a  mine,  surrounded  with  its  few  unpainted  houses,  and 
topped  by  its  never-failing  feather  of  black  smoke.  On  near  ap 
proach  one  heard  the  prolonged  thunder  of  the  stamp-mill,  the 
crusher,  the  insatiable  monster,  gnashing  the  rocks  to  powder  with 
its  long  iron  teeth,  vomiting  them  out  again  in  a  thin  stream  of  wet 


238  McTeague 

gray  mud.  Its  enormous  maw,  fed  night  and  day  with  the  car-boys' 
loads,  gorged  itself  with  gravel,  and  spat  out  the  gold,  grinding 
the  rocks  between  its  jaws,  glutted,  as  it  were,  with  the  very  en 
trails  of  the  earth,  and  growling  over  its  endless  meal,  like  some 
savage  animal,  some  legendary  dragon,  some  fabulous  beast,  symbol 
of  inordinate  and  monstrous  gluttony. 

McTeague  had  left  the  Overland  train  at  Colfax,  and  the  same 
afternoon  had  ridden  some  eight  miles  across  the  mountains  in  the 
stage  that  connects  Colfax  with  Iowa  Hill.  Iowa  Hill  was  a  small 
one-street  town,  the  headquarters  of  the_mines  of  the  district.  Orig 
inally  it  had  been  built  upon  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  but  the  sides 
of  this  mountain  have  long  since  been  "hydraulicked"  away,  so  that 
the  town  now  clings  to  a  mere  backbone,  and  the  rear  windows  of 
the  houses  on  both  sides  of  the  street  look  down  over  sheer  preci 
pices,  into  vast  pits  hundreds  of  feet  deep. 

The  dentist  stayed  overnight  at  the  Hill,  and  the  next  morning 
started  off  on  foot  further  into  the  mountains.  He  still  wore  his 
blue  overalls  and  jumper ;  his  woolen  cap  was  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes;  on  his  feet  were  hob-nailed  boots  he  had  bought  at  the  store 
in  Colfax ;  his  blanket  roll  was  over  his  back ;  in  his  left  hand  swung 
the  bird  cage  wrapped  in  sacks. 

Just  outside  the  town  he  paused,  as  if  suddenly  remembering 
something. 

"There  ought  to  be  a  trail  just  off  the  road  here,"  he  muttered. 
"There  used  to  be  a  trail — a  short  cut." 

The  next  instant,  without  moving  from  his  position,  he  saw 
where  it  opened  just  before  him.  His  instinct  had  halted  him  at 
the  exact  spot.  The  trail  zigzagged  down  the  abrupt  descent  of  the 
canon,  debouching  into  a  gravelly  river  bed. 

"Indian  River,"  muttered  the  dentist.  "I  remember — I  remem 
ber.  I  ought  to  hear  the  Morning  Star's  stamps  from  here."  He 
cocked  his  head.  A  low,  sustained  roar,  like  a  distant  cataract,  came 
to  his  ears  from  across  the  river.  "That's  right,"  he  said,  con 
tentedly.  He  crossed  the  river  and  regained  the  road  befond.  The 
slope  rose  under  his  feet;  a  little  further  on  he  passed  the  Morning 
Star  mine,  smoking  and  thundering.  McTeague  pushed  steadily 
on.  The  road  rose  with  the  rise  of  the  mountain,  turned  at  a  sharp 
angle  where  a  great  live-oak  grew,  and  held  level  for  nearly  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile.  Twice  again  the  dentist  left  the  road  and  took  to  the 
trail  that  cut  through  deserted  hydraulic  pits.  He  knew  exactly 
where  to  look  for  these  trails ;  not  once  did  his  instinct  deceive  him. 


McTeague  239 

He  recognized  familiar  points  at  once.  Here  was  Cold  Canon, 
where  invariably,  winter  and  summer,  a  chilly  wind  was  blowing; 
here  was  where  the  road  to  Spencer's  branched  off;  here  was 
Bussy's  old  place,  where  at  one  time  there  were  so  many  dogs; 
here  was  Delmue's  cabin,  where  unlicensed  whiskey  used  to  be  sold ; 
here  was  the  plank  bridge  with  its  one  rotten  board;  and  here 
the  flat  overgrown  with  manzanita,  where  he  once  had  shot  three 
quail. 

At  noon,  after  he  had  been  tramping  for  some  two  hours,  he 
halted  at  a  point  where  the  road  dipped  suddenly.  A  little  to  the 
right  of  him,  and  flanking  the  road,  an  enormous  yellow  gravel-pit 
like  an  emptied  lake  gaped  to  heaven.  Further  on,  in  the  distance, 
a  canon  zigzagged  toward  the  horizon,  rugged  with  pine-clad  moun 
tain  crests.  Nearer  at  hand,  and  directly  in  the  line  of  the  road, 
was  an  irregular  cluster  of  unpainted  cabins.  A  dull,  prolonged  roar 
vibrated  in  the  air.  McTeague  nodded  his  head  as  if  satisfied. 

"That's  the  place,"  he  muttered. 

He  reshouldered  his  blanket  roll  and  descended  the  road.  At 
last  he  halted  again.  He  stood  before  a  low  one-story  building, 
differing  from  the  others  in  that  it  was  painted.  A  veranda,  shut  in 
with  mosquito  netting,  surrounded  it.  McTeague  dropped  his 
blanket  roll  on  a  lumber  pile  outside,  and  came  up  and  knocked 
at  the  open  door.  Some  one  called  to  him  to  come  in. 

McTeague  entered,  rolling  his  eyes  about  him,  noting  the 
changes  that  had  been  made  since  he  had  last  seen  this  place.  A 
partition  had  been  knocked  down,  making  one  big  room  out  of  the 
two  former  small  ones.  A  counter  and  railing  stood  inside  the 
door.  There  was  a  telephone  on  the  wall.  In  one  corner  he  also 
observed  a  stack  of  surveyors'  instruments;  a  big  drawing-board 
straddled  on  spindle  legs  across  one  end  of  the  room,  a  mechanical 
drawing  of  some  kind,  no  doubt  the  plan  of  the  mine,  unrolled  upon 
it;  a  chromo  representing  a  couple  of  peasants  in  a  plowed  field 
(Millet's  "Angelus")  was  nailed  unframed  upon  the  wall,  and  hang 
ing  from  the  same  wire  nail  that  secured  one  of  its  corners  in  place 
was  a  bullion  bag  and  a  cartridge  belt  with  a  loaded  revolver  in  the 
pouch. 

The  dentist  approached  the  counter  and  leaned  his  elbows  upon 
it.  Three  men  were  in  the  room — a  tall,  lean  young  man,  with  a 
thick  head  of  jjair  surprisingly  gray,  who  was  playing  with  a  half- 
grown  great  Dane  puppy ;  another  fellow  about  as  young,  but  with 
a  jaw  almost  as  salient  as  McTeague's,  stood  at  the  letter-press 


240  McTeague 

taking  a  copy  of  a  letter ;  a  third  man,  a  little  older  than  the  other 
two,  was  pottering  over  a  transit.  This  latter  was  massively  built, 
and' wore  overalls  and  low  boots  streaked  and  stained  and  spotted 
in  every  direction  with  gray  mud.  The  dentist  looked  slowly  from 
one  to  the  other;  then  at  length,  "Is  the  foreman  about?"  he  asked. 

The  man  in  the  muddy  overalls  came  forward. 

"What  you  want?" 

He  spoke  with  a  strong  German  accent. 

The  old  invariable  formula  came  back  to  McTeague  on  the 
instant. 

"What's  the  show  for  a  job?" 

At  once  the  German  foreman  became  preoccupied,  looking  aim 
lessly  out  of  the  window.  There  was  a  silence. 

"You  hev  been  miner  alretty  ?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Know  how  to  hendle  pick'n  shov'le?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

The  other  seemed  unsatisfied.    "Are  you  a  Cousin  Jack'  ?" 

The  dentist  grinned.  This  prejudice  against  Cornishmen  he  re 
membered  too.  - 1 

"No.    American." 

"How  long  sence  you  mine?" 

"Oh,  year  or  two." 

"Show  your  hends."  McTeague  exhibited  his  hard,  calloused 
palms. 

"When  ken  you  go  to  work?  I  want  a  chuck-tender  on  der 
night-shift." 

"I  can  tend  a  chuck.    I'll  go  on  to-night." 

"What's  your  name?" 

The  dentist  started.    He  had  forgotten  to  be  prepared  for  this. 

"Huh?    What?" 

"What's  the  name?" 

McTeague's  eye  was  caught  by  a  railroad  calendar  hanging  over 
the  desk.  There  was  no  time  to  think. 

"Burlington,"  he  said,  loudly. 

The  German  took  a  card  from  a  file  and  wrote  it  down. 

"Give  dis  card  to  der  boarding-boss,  down  at  der  boarding-haus, 
den  gome  find  me  bei  der  mill  at  sex  o'clock,  und  I  set  you  to  work." 
^toaigfo^^  and  following  a_  blind  andjunrea.- 

sone?~iipunck  McTeague  had  returned  tqJthejBig"Dipper  mine. 
~~  it  seemed  to  him  as  though /" 


McTeague  241 

away.  He  picked  up  his  life  again  exactly  where  he  had  left  it  the 
day  when  his  mother  had  sent  him  away  with  the  traveling  dentist, 
the  charlatan  who  had  set  up  his  tent  by  the  bunk  house.  The  house 
McTeague  had  once  lived  in  was  still  there,  occupied  by  one  of  the 
shift  bosses  and  his  family.  The  dentist  passed  it  on  his  way  to 
and  from  the  mine. 

He  himself  slept  in  the  bunk  house  with  some  thirty  others  of 
his  shift.  At  half-past  five  in  the  evening  the  cook  at  the  boarding- 
house  sounded  a  prolonged  alarm  upon  a  crowbar  bent  in  the  form 
of  a  triangle,  that  hung  upon  the  porch  of  the  boarding-house. 
McTeague  rose  and  dressed,  and  with  his  shift  had  supper.  Their 
lunch-pails  were  distributed  to  them.  Then  he  made  his  way  to  the 
tunnel  mouth,  climbed  into  a  car  in  the  waiting  ore  train,  and  was 
hauled  into  the  mine. 

Once  inside,  the  hot  evening  air  turned  to  a  cool  dampness,  and 
the  forest  odors  gave  place  to  the  smell  of  pale  dynamite  smoke, 
suggestive  of  burning  rubber.  A  cloud  of  steam  came  from  Mc- 
Teague's  mouth ;  underneath,  the  water  swashed  and  rippled  around 
the  car-wheels,  while  the  light  from  the  miners'  candlesticks  threw 
wavering  blurs  of  pale  yellow  over  the  gray  rotting  quartz  of  the 
roof  and  walls.  Occasionally  McTeague  bent  down  his  head  to 
avoid  the  sagging  of  the  roof  or  the  projections  of  an  overhanging 
shute.  From  car  to  car  all  along  the  line  the  miners  called  to  one 
another  as  the  train  trundled  along,  joshing  and  laughing. 

A  mile  from  the  entrance  the  train  reached  the  breast  where 
McTeague's  gang  worked.  The  men  clambered  from  the  cars  and 
took  up  the  labor  where  the  day  shift  had  left  it,  burrowing  their 
way  steadily  through  a  primeval  river  bed. 

The  candlesticks  thrust  into  the  crevices  of  the  gravel  strata 
lighted  up  faintly  the  half  dozen  moving  figures  befouled  with  sweat 
and  with  wet  gray  mould.  The  picks  struck  into  the  loose  gravel  with 
a  yielding  shock.  The  long-handled  shovels  slinked  amid  the  piles 
of  bowlders  and  scraped  dully  in  the  heaps  of  rotten  quartz.  The 
Burly  drill  boring  for  blasts  broke  out  from  time  to  time  in  an  irreg 
ular  chug-chug,  chug-chug,  while  the  engine  that  pumped  the  water 
from  the  mine  coughed  and  strangled  at  short  intervals. 

McTeague  tended  the  chuck.  In  a  way  he  was  the  assistant 
of  the  man  who  worked  the  Burly.  It  was  his  duty  to  replace  the 
drills  in  the  Burly,  putting  in  longer  ones  as  the  hole  got  deeper 
and  deeper.  From  time  to  time  he  rapped  the  drill  with  a  pole-pick 
when  it  stuck  fast  or  fitchered. 

K— III— NORRIS 


242  McTeague 

Once  it  even  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  a  resemblance  between 
his  present  work  and  the  profession  he  had  been  forced  to  abandon. 
In  the  Burly  drill  he  saw  a  queer  counterpart  of  his  old-time  dental 
engine;  and  what  were  the  drills  and  chucks  but  enormous  hoe 
excavators,  hard  bits  and  burrs?  It  was  the  same_wprk.Jie.Jiajd_ 
so  often  performed  in  his  |Tarlprs^"  only  "magnified,  made  mon 
strous,  distorted,  and  grotesqued,  the  caricature  of.. dentistry. 

He  passed  his  nights  thus  in  the  midst  of  the  play  of  crude  and 
simple  forces — the  powerful  attacks  of  the  Burly  drills;  the  great 
exertions  of  bared,  bent  backs  overlaid  with  muscle;  the  brusque, 
resistless  expansion  of  dynamite;  and  the  silent,  vast  Titanic  force, 
mysterious  and  slow,  that  cracked  the  timbers  supporting  the  roof 
of  the  tunnel,  and  that  gradually  flattened  the  lagging  till  it  was  thin 
as  paper. 

:Qjae  life  pleased  the  dentist  beyond  words.  The  still,  colossal 
mountains  took  him  back  again  like  a  returning  prodigal,  and  vague 
ly,  without  knowing  why,  he  yielded  to  their  influence — their  im 
mensity,  their  enormous  power,  crude  and  blind,  reflecting  them 
selves  in  his  own  nature,  huge,  strong,  brutal  in  its  simplicity.  And 
this,  though  he  only  saw  the  mountains  at  night.  They  appeared 
far  different  then  than  in  the  daytime.  At  twelve  o'clock  he 
came  out  of  the  mine  and  lunched  on  the  contents  of  his  dinner- 
pail,  sitting  upon  the  embankment  of  the  track,  eating  with  both 
hands,  and  looking  around  him  with  a  steady,  ox-like  gaze.  The 
mountains  rose  sheer  from  every  side,  heaving  their  gigantic  crests 
far  up  into  the  night,  the  black  peaks  crowding  together  and  look 
ing  now  less  like  beasts  than  like  a  company  of  cowled  giants.  In 
the  daytime  they  were  silent,  but  at  night  they  seemed  to  stir  and 
rouse  themselves.  Occasionally  the  stamp-mill  stopped,  its  thun 
der  ceasing  abruptly.  Then  one  could  hear  the  noises  that  the 
mountains  made  in  their  living.  From  the  canon,  from  the  crowd 
ing  crests,  from  the  whole  immense  landscape  there  rose  a  steady 
and  prolonged  sound,  coming  from  all  sides  at  once.  It  was  that 
incessant  and  muffled  roar  which  disengages  itself  from  all  vast 
bodies,  from  oceans,  from  cities,  from  forests,  from  sleeping  armies, 
and  which  is  like  the  breathing  of  an  infinitely  great  monster,  alive, 
palpitating. 

,  McTeague  returned  to  his  work.  At  six  in  the  morning  his  shift 
was  taken  off,  and  he  went  out  of  the  mine  and  back  to  the  bunk 
house.  All  day  long  he  slept,  flung  at  length  upon  the  strong- 
smelling  blankets — slept  the  dreamless  sleep  of  exhaustion,  crushed 


McTeague  243 

and  overpowered  with  the  work,  flat  and  prone  upon  his  belly,  till 
again  in  the  evening  the  cook  sounded  the  alarm  upon  the  crowbar 
bent  into  a  triangle. 

Every  akernate  week  the  shifts  were  changed.  The  second  week 
McTeague's  shift  worked  in  the  daytime  and  slept  at  night. 
Wednesday  night  of  this  second  week  the  dentist  woke  suddenly. 
He  sat  up  in  his  bed  in  the  bunk  house,  looking  about  him  from  side 
to  side ;  an  alarm  clock  hanging  on  the  wall,  over  a  lantern,  marked 
half-past  three. 

"What  was  it?"  muttered  the  dentist.  "I  wonder  what  it  was." 
The  rest  of  the  shift  were  sleeping  soundly,  rilling  the  room  with 
the  rasping  sound  of  snoring.  Everything  was  hi  its  accus 
tomed  place;  nothing  stirred.  But  for  all  that  McTeague  got  up 
and  lighted  his  miner's  candlestick  and  went  carefully  about  the 
room,  throwing  the  light  into  the  dark  corners,  peering  under  all  the 
beds,  including  his  own.  Then  he  went  to  the  door  and  stepped 
outside.  The  night  was  warm  and  still;  the  moon,  very  low,  and 
canted  on  her  side  like  a  galleon  foundering.  The  camp  was  very 
quiet;  nobody  was  in  sight.  "I  wonder  what  it  was,"  muttered  the 
dentist.  "There  was  something — why  did  I  wake  up?  Huh?" 
He  made  a  circuit  about  the  bunk  house,  unusually  alert,  his  small 
eyes  twinkling  rapidly,  seeing  everything.  All  was  quiet.  An  old 
dog  who  invariably  slept  on  the  steps  of  the  bunk  house  had  not 
even  wakened.  McTeague  went  back  to  bed,  but  did  not  sleep. 

"There  was  something"  he  muttered,  looking  in  a  puzzled  way 
at  his  canary  in  the  cage  that  hung  from  the  wall  at  his  bedside, 
"something.  What  was  it?  There  is  something  now.  There  it  is 
again — the  same  thing."  He  sat  up  in  bed  with  eyes  and  ears 
strained.  "What  is  it?  I  don'  know  what  it  is.  I  don'  hear  any 
thing,  an'  I  don'  see  anything.  I  feel  something — right  now;  feel 
it  now.  I  wonder — I  don'  know — I  don'  know." 

Once  more  he  got  up,  and  this  time  dressed  himself.  He  made 
a  complete  tour  of  the  camp,  looking  and  listening,  for  what  he  did 
not  know.  He  even  went  to  the  outskirts  of  the  camp  and  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  watched  the  road  that  led  into  the  camp  from 
the  direction  of  Iowa  Hill.  He  saw  nothing;  not  even  a  rabbit  ; 
stirred.  He  went  to  bed. 

But  from  this  time  on  there  was  a  change.     The  dentist  grew   j 
restless,  uneasy.     Suspicion  of  something,  he  could  not  say  what,    i 
annoyed  him  incessantly.    He  went  wide  around  sharp  corners.    At 
every  moment  he  looked  sharply  over  his  shoulder.     He  even  went 


244  McTeague 

to  bed  with  his  clothes  and  cap  on,  and  at  every  hour  during  the 
night  would  get  up  and  prowl  about  the  bunk  house,  one  ear  turned 
down  the  wind,  his  eyes  gimleting  the  darkness.  From  time  to 
time  he  would  murmur : 

"There's  something.  What  is  it?  I  wonder  what  it  is. 
What  strange  sixth  sense  stirred  in  McTeague  at .this  .lime? 
What  "animal  cunning,  what  brute  instinct  clamored  for  recognition 
and  obedience?  What  lower  faculty  was  it  that  roused  his  sus- 
pTcTorr;iTTat*"drove  him  out  into  the  night  a  score  of  times  between 
dark  and  dawn,  his  head  in  the  air,  his  eyes  and  ears  keenly  alert? 
One  night  as  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  bunk  house,  peering 
into  the  shadows  of  the  camp,  he  uttered  an  exclamation  as  of  a  man 
suddenly  enlightened.  He  turned  back  into  the  house>  drew  from 
under  the  bed  the  blanket  roll  in  which  he  kept  his  money  hid,  and 
took  the  canary  down  from  the  wall.  He  strode  to  the  door  and 
disappeared  into  the  night.  When  the  sheriff  from  Placer  County 

'  and  the  two  deputies  from  San  Francisco  reached  the  Big  Dipper 

|  mine,  McTeague  had  been  gone  two  days. 


XXI 

"WELL/'  said  one  of  the  deputies,  as  he  backed  the  horse  into 
the  shafts  of  the  buggy  in  which  the  pursuers  had  driven  over  from 
the  Hill,  "we've  about  as  good  as  got  him.  It  isn't  hard  to  follow  a 
man  who  carries  a  bird  cage  with  him  wherever  he  goes." 

McTeague  crossed  the  mountains  on  foot  the  Friday  and  Satur 
day  of  that  week,  going  over  through  Emigrant  Gap,  following  the 
line  of  the  Overland  railroad.  He  reached  Reno  Monday  night. 
By  degrees  a  vague  plan  of  action  outlined  itself  in  the  dentist's 
mind. 

"Mexico,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Mexico,  that's  the  place. 
They'll  watch  the  coast  and  they'll  watch  the  Eastern  trains,  but 
they  won't  think  of  Mexico." 

The  sense  of  pursuit  which  had  harassed  him  during  the  last 
week  of  his  stay  at  the  Big  Dipper  mine  had  worn  off,  and  he  be 
lieved  himself  to  be  very  cunning. 

"I'm  pretty  far  ahead  now,  I  guess,"  he  said.  At  Reno  he 
boarded  a  southbound  freight  on  the  line  of  the  Carson  and  Color 
ado  Railroad,  paying  for  a  passage  in  the  caboose.  "Freights  don' 


McTeague  245 

run  on  schedule  time,"  he  muttered,  "and  a  conductor  on  a  passen 
ger  train  makes  it  his  business  to  study  faces.  I'll  stay  with  this 
train  as  far  as  it  goes." 

The  freight  worked  slowly  southward,  through  western  Nevada, 
the  country  becoming  hourly  more  and  more  desolate  and  aban 
doned.  After  leaving  Walker  Lake  the  sage  brush  country  began, 
and  the  freight  rolled  heavily  over  tracks  that  threw  off  visible  lay 
ers  of  heat.  At  times  it  stopped  whole  half  days  on  sidings  or  by 
water  tanks,  and  the  engineer  and  fireman  came  back  to  the  caboose 
and  played  poker  with  the  conductor  and  train  crew.  The  dentist 
sat  apart,  behind  the  stove,  smoking  pipe  after  pipe  of  cheap  tobac 
co.  Sometimes  he  joined  in  the  poker  games.  He  had  learned 
poker  when  a  boy  at  the  mine,  and  after  a  few  deals  his  knowledge 
returned  to  him ;  but  for  the  most  part  he  was  taciturn  and  unsocia 
ble,  and  rarely  spoke  to  the  others  unless  spoken  to  first.  The  crew 
recognized  the  type,  and  the  impression  gained  ground  among  them 
that  he  had  "done  for"  a  livery  stable  keeper  at  Truckee  and  was 
trying  to  get  down  into  Arizona. 

McTeague  heard  two  brakemen  discussing  him  one  night  as  they 
stood  outside  by  the  halted  train.  "The  livery-stable  keeper  called 
him  a  bastard ;  that's  what  Picachos  told  me,"  one  of  them  remarked, 
"and  started  to  draw  his  gun ;  an'  this  fellar  did  for  him  with  a  hay 
fork.  He's  a  horse  doctor,  this  chap  is,  and  the  livery-stable 
keeper  had  got  the  law  on  him  so's  he  couldn't  practice  any  more, 
an'  he  was  sore  about  it." 

Near  a  place  called  Queens  the  train  re-entered  California,  and 
McTeague  observed  with  relief  that  the  line  of  track  which  had 
hitherto  held  westward  curved  sharply  to  the  south  again.  The 
train  was  unmolested ;  occasionally  the  crew  fought  with  a  gang  of 
tramps  who  attempted  to  ride  the  brake  beams,  and  once  in  the 
northern  part  of  Inyo  County,  while  they  were  halted  at  a  water 
tank,  an  immense  Indian  buck,  blanketed  to  the  ground,  approached 
McTeague  as  he  stood  on  the  roadbed  stretching  his  legs,  and 
without  a  word  presented  to  him  a  filthy,  crumpled  letter.  The  let-\ 
ter  was  to  the  effect  that  the  buck  Big  Jim  was  a  good  Indian  and  ) 
deserving  of  charity ;  the  signature  was  illegible.  The  dentist  stared 
at  the  letter,  returned  it  to  the  buck,  and  regained  the  train  just  as 
it  started.  Neither  had  spoken;  the  buck  did  not  move  from  his 
position,  and  fully  five  minutes  afterward,  when  the  slow-moving 
freight  was  miles  away,  the  dentist  looked  back  and  saw  him  still 
standing  motionless  between  the  rails,  a  forlorn  and  solitary  point 


246  McTeague 

of  red,  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  surrounding  white  blur  of  the 

desert. 

At  length  the  mountains  began  again,  rising  up  on  either  side 
of  the  track;  vast,  naked  hills  of  white  sand  and  red  rock,  spotted 
with  blue  shadows.  Here  and  there  a  patch  of  green  was  spread 
like  a  gay  tablecloth  over  the  sand.  All  at  once  Mount  Whitney 
leaped  over  the  horizon.  Independence  was  reached  and  passed ;  the 
freight,  nearly  emptied  by  now,  and  much  shortened,  rolled  along 
the  shores  of  Owen  Lake.  At  a  place  called  Keeler  it  stopped  defi 
nitely.  It  was  the  terminus  of  the  road. 

The  town  of  Keeler  was  a  one-street  town,  not  unlike  Iowa  Hill 
—the  post-office,  the  bar  and  hotel,  the  Odd  Fellows'  Hall,  and 
the  livery  stable  being  the  principal  buildings. 

"Where  to  now?"  muttered  McTeague  to  himself  as  he  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  in  his  room  in  the  hotel.  He  hung  the  canary  in 
the  window,  filled  its  little  bathtub,  and  watched  it  take  its  bath 
with  enormous  satisfaction.  "Where  to  now?"  he  muttered  again. 
"This  is  as  far  as  the  railroad  goes,  an'  it  won'  do  for  me  to  stay 
in  a  town  yet  a  while ;  no,  it  won'  do.  I  got  to  clear  out.  Where 
to?  That's  the  word,  where  to?  I'll  go  down  to  supper  now" — • 
He  went  on  whispering  his  thoughts  aloud,  so  that  they  would  take 
more  concrete  shape  in  his  mind — "I'll  go  down  to  supper  now,  an' 
then  I'll  hang  aroun'  the  bar  this  evening  till  I  get  the  lay  of  this 
land.  Maybe  this  is  fruit  country,  though  it  looks  more  like  a 
cattle  country.  Maybe  it's  a  mining  country.  If  it's  a  mining 
country,"  he  continued,  puckering  his  heavy  eyebrows,  "if  it's  a 
mining  country,  an'  the  mines  are  far  enough  off  the  roads,  maybe 
I'd  better  get  to  the  mines  an'  lay  quiet  for  a  month  before  I  try  to 
get  any  further  south." 

He  washed  the  cinders  and  dust  of  a  week's  railroading  from 
his  face  and  hair,  and  put  on  a  fresh  pair  of  boots,  and  went  down 
to  supper.  The  dining-room  was  of  the  invariable  type  of  the 
smaller  interior  towns  of  California.  There  was  but  one  table,  cov 
ered  with  oilcloth ;  rows  of  benches  answered  for  chairs ;  a  railroad 
map,  a  chromo  with  a  gilt  frame  protected  by  mosquito  netting, 
hung  on  the  walls,  together  with  a  yellowed  photograph  of  the  pro 
prietor  in  Masonic  regalia.  Two. waitresses  whom  the  guests — all 
men — called  by  their  first  names  came  and  went  with  large  trays. 

Through  the  windows  outside  McTeague  observed  a  great  num 
ber  of  saddle  horses  tied  to  trees  and  fences.  Each  one  of  these 
horses  had  a  riata  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle.  He  sat  down  to 


McTeague  247 

the  table,  eating  his  thick  hot  soup,  watching  his  neighbors  covertly, 
listening  to  everything  that  was  said.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to 
gather  that  the  country  to  the  east  and  south  of  Keeler  was  a  cattle 
country.  , 

Not  far  off,  across  a  range  of  hills,  was  the  Panamint  Valley, 
where  the  big  cattle  ranges  were.  Every  now  and  then  this  name 
was  tossed  to  and  fro  across  the  table  in  the  flow  of  conversation — 
"Over  in  the  Panamint."  "Just  going  down  for  a  rodeo  in  the 
Panamint."  "Panamint  brands."  "Has  a  range  down  in  the  Pana 
mint." 

Then  by  the  remark  "Hoh,  yes,  Gold  Gulch,  they're  down  to 
good  pay  there.  That's  on  the  other  side  of  the  Panamint  Range. 
Peters  came  in  yesterday  and  told  me." 

McTeague  turned  to  the  speaker. 

"Is  that  a  gravel  mine?"  he  asked. 

"No,  no,  quartz." 

"I'm  a  miner ;  that's  why  I  asked." 

"Well,  I've  mined  some  too.  I  had  a  hole  in  the  ground  meself, 
but  she  was  silver ;  and  when  the  skunks  at  Washington  lowered  the 
price  of  silver,  where  was  I  ?  Fitchered,  b'God !" 

"I  was  looking  for  a  job." 

"Well,  it's  mostly  cattle  down  here  in  the  Panamint,  but  since 
the~strik?bver  at  Gold  Gulch  some  of  the  boys  have  gone  prospect 
ing.  There's  gold  in  them  damn  Panamint  Mountains.  If  you  can 
find  a  good  long  'contact'  of  country  rocks  you  ain't  far  from  it. 
There's  a  couple  of  fellars  from  Redlands  has  located  four  claims 
around  Gold  Gulch.  They  got  a  vein  eighteen  inches  wide,  an' 
Peters  says  you  can  trace  it  for  more'n  a  thousand  feet.  Were  you 
thinking  of  prospecting  over  there  ?" 

"Well,  well,  I  don'  know,  I  don'  know." 

"Well,  I'm  going  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  range  day  after 
t'morrow  after  some  ponies  of  mine,  an'  I'm  going  to  have  a  look 
around.  You  say  you've  been  a  miner?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"If  you're  going  over  that  way,  you  might  come  along  and  see  \ 
if  we  can't  find  a  contact,  or  copper  sulphurets,  or  something.  Even  I 
if  we  don't  find  color  we  may  find  silver-bearing  galena."  Then,  / 
after  a  pause,  "Let's  see^-dicln't  catch  your  name." 

"Huh?  My  name's  Carteij,"  answered  McTeague,  promptly. 
Why  he  should  change  his'  name  again  the  dentist  could  not  say. 
"Carter"  came  to  his  mind  at  once,  and  he  answered  without  re- 


McTeague 

fleeting  that  he  had  registered  as  "Burlington"  when  he  had  arrived 
at  the  hotel. 

"Well,  my  name's  Cribbens,"  answered  the  other.  The  two 
shook  hands  solemnly. 

"You're  about  finished?"  continued  Cribbens,  pushing  back. 
"Le's  go  out  in  the  bar  an'  have  a  drink  on  it." 

"Sure,  sure,"  said  the  dentist. 

The  two  sat  up  late  that  night  in  a  corner  of  the  barroom  dis 
cussing  the  probability  of  finding  gold  in  the  Panamint  hills.  It 
soon  became  evident  that  they  held  differing  theories.  McTeague 
clung  to  the  old  prospector's  idea  that  there  was  no  way  of  telling 
where  gold  was  until  you  actually  saw  it.  Cribbens  had  evidently 
read  a  good  many  books  upon  the  subject,  and  had  already  pros 
pected  in  something  of  a  scientific  manner. 

"Shucks!"  he  exclaimed.  "Gi'  me  a  long  distinct  contact  be 
tween  sedimentary  and  igneous  rocks,  an*  I'll  sink  a  shaft  without 
ever  seeing  'color.' ''' 

The  dentist  put  his  huge  chin  in  the  air.  "Gold  is  where  you  find 
it,"  he  returned,  doggedly. 

"Well,  it's  my  idea  as  how  pardners  ought  to  work  along  differ 
ent  lines,"  said  Cribbens.  He  tucked  the  corners  of  his  mustache 
into  his  mouth  and  sucked  the  tobacco  juice  from  them.  For  a 
moment  he  was  thoughtful,  then  he  blew  out  his  mustache  abruptly, 

"Say,  Carter,  let's  make  a  go  of  this.  You  got  a  little  cash,  I 
suppose — fifty  dollars  or  so?" 

"Huh?    Yes— I— I—" 

"Well,  7  got  about  fifty.  We'll  go  pardners  on  the  proposition, 
an'  we'll  dally  'round  the  range  yonder  an'  see  what  we  can  see. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

"Sure,  sure,"  answered  the  dentist. 

"Well,  it's  a  go  then,  hey?" 

"That's  the  word." 

"Well,  le's  have  a  drink  on  it." 

They  drank  with  profound  gravity. 

They  fitted  out  the  next  day  at  the  general  merchandise  store  of 
Keeler — picks,  shovels,  prospectors'  hammers,  a  couple  of  cradles, 
pans,  bacon,  flour,  coffee,  and  the  like,  and  they  bought  a  burro  on 
which  to  pack  their  kit. 

"Say,  by  jingo,  you  ain't  got  a  horse,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Crib 
bens  as  they  came  out  of  the  store.  "You  can't  get  around  this  coun 
try  without  a  pony  of  some  kind." 


McTeague  249 

Cribbens  already  owned  and  rode  a  buckskin  cayuse  that  had  to 
be  knocked  in  the  head  and  stunned  before  it  could  be  saddled.  "I 
got  an  extry  saddle  an'  a  headstall  at  the  hotel  that  you  can  use,"  he 
said,  "but  you'll  have  to  get  a  horse." 

In  the  end  the  dentist  bought  a  mule  at  the  livery  stable  for 
forty  dollars.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  good  bargain,  however,  for  the 
mule  was  a  good  traveler  and  seemed  actually  to  fatten  on  sage 
brush  and  potato  parings.  When  the  actual  transaction  took  place, 
McTeague  had  been  obliged  to  get  the  money  to  pay  for  the  mule 
out  of  the  canvas  sack.  Cribbens  was  with  him  at  the  time,  and 
as  the  dentist  unrolled  his  blankets  and  disclosed  the  sack,  whistled 
in  amazement. 

"An'  me  asking  you  if  you  had  fifty  dollars!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  carry  your  mine  right  around  with  you,  don't  you?" 

"Huh,  I  guess  so,"  muttered  the  dentist.  "I — I  just  sold  a  claim 
I  had  up  in  El  Dorado  County,"  he  added. 

At  five  o'clock  on  a  magnificent  May  morning  the  "pardners" 
jogged  out  of  Keeler,  driving  the  burro  before  them.  Cribbens  rode 
his  cayuse,  McTeague  following  in  his  rear  on  the  mule. 

"Say,"  remarked  Cribbens,  "why  in  thunder  don't  you  leave 
that  fool  canary  behind  at  the  hotel?  It's  going  to  be  in  your 
way  all  the  time,  an'  it  will  sure  die.  Better  break  its  neck  an' 
chuck  it." 

"No,  no,"  insisted  the  dentist.  "I've  had  it  too  long.  I'll  take 
it  with  me." 

"Well,  that's  the  craziest  idea  I  ever  heard  of,"  remarked  Crib 
bens,  "to  take  a  canary  along  prospecting.  Why  not  kid  gloves, 
and  be  done  with  it?" 

They  traveled  leisurely  to  the  southeast  during  the  day,  fol 
lowing  a  well-beaten  cattle  road,  and  that  evening  camped  on  a 
spur  of  some  hills  at  the  head  of  the  Panamint  Valley  where  there 
was  a  spring.  The  next  day  they  crossed  the  Panamint  itself. 

"That's  a  smart  looking  valley,"  observed  the  dentist. 

"Now  you're  talking  straight  talk,"  returned  Cribbens,  sucking 
his  mustache.  The  valley  was  beautiful,  wide,  level,  and  very  green. 
Everywhere  were  herds  of  cattle,  scarcely  less  wild  than  deer. 
Once  or  twice  cowboys  passed  them  on  the  road,  big-boned 
fellows,  picturesque  in  their  broad  hats,  hairy  trousers,  jingling 
spurs,  and  revolver  belts,  surprisingly  like  the  pictures  McTeague 
remembered  to  have  seen.  Every  one  of  them  knew  Cribbens,  and 
almost  invariably  joshed  him  on  his  venture. 


250  McTeague 

"Say,  Crib,  ye'd  best  take  a  wagon  train  with  ye  to  bring  your 
dust  back." 

Cribbens  resented  their  humor,  and  after  they  had  passed, 
chewed  fiercely  on  his  mustache. 

"I'd  like  to  make  a  strike,  b'God !  if  it  was  only  to  get  the  laugh 
on  them  joshers." 

*~  By  noon  they  were  climbing  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Panamint 
Range.  Long  since  they  had  abandoned  the  road;  vegetation 
ceased;  not  a  tree  was  in  sight.  They  followed  faint  cattle  trails 
that  led  from  one  water  hole  to  another.  By  degrees  these  water 
holes  grew  drier  and  drier,  and  at  three  o'clock  Cribbens  halted  and 
filled  their  canteens. 

"There  ain't  any  too  much  water  on  the  other  side,"  he  observed 
grimly. 

"It's  pretty  hot,"  muttered  the  dentist,  wiping  his  streaming 
forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Huh !"  snorted  the  other  more  grimly  than  ever.  The  motion 
less  air  was  like  the  mouth  of  a  furnace.  Cribbens's  pony  lathered 
and  panted.  McTeague's  mule  began  to  droop  his  long  ears.  Only 
the  little  burro  plodded  resolutely  on,  picking  the  trail  where  Mc 
Teague  could  see  but  trackless  sand  and  stunted  sage.  Toward 
evening  Cribbens,  who  was  in  he  lead,  drew  rein  on  the  summit  of 
the  hills. 

Behind  them  was  the  beautiful  green  Panamint  Valley,  but  be 
fore  and  below  them  for  miles  and  miles,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  a  flat,  white  desert,  empty  even  of  sage-brush,  unrolled  to 
ward  the  horizon.  In  the  immediate  foreground  a  broken  system 
of  arroyos,  and  little  canons  tumbled  down  to  meet  it.  To  the 
north  faint  blue  hills  shouldered  themselves  above  the  horizon. 

"Well,"  observed  Cribbens,  "we're  on  the  top  of  the  Panamint 
Range  now.  It's  along  this  eastern  slope,  right  below  us  here,  that 
we're  going  to  prospect.  Gold  Gulch" — he  pointed  with  the  butt 
of  his  quirt — "is  about  eighteen  or  nineteen  miles  along  here  to  the 
north  of  us.  Those  hills  way  over  yonder  to  the  northeast  are  the 
Telescope  hills." 

"What  do  you  call  the  desert  out  yonder?"  McTeague's  eyes 
wandered  over  the  illimitable  stretch  of  alkali  that  stretched  out 
forever  and  forever  to  the  east,  to  the  north,  and  to  the  south. 

"That,"  said  Cribbens,  "that's  Death  Valley." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  horses  panted  irregularly,  the 
sweat  dripping  from  their  heaving  bellies.  Cribbens  and  the  den- 


McTeague  251 

tist  sat  motionless  in  their  saddles,  looking  out  over  that  abominable 
desolation,  silent,  troubled. 

"God!"  ejaculated  Cribbens  at  length,  under  his  breath,  with  a 
shake  of  his  head.  Then  he  seemed  to  rouse  himself.  "Well,"  he 
remarked,  "first  thing  we  got  to  do  now  is  to  find  water." 

This  was  a  long  and  difficult  task.  They  descended  into  one 
little  canon  after  another,  followed  the  course  of  numberless  ar- 
royos,  and  even  dug  where  there  seemed  indications  of  moisture,  all 
to  no  purpose.  But  at  length  McTeague's  mule  put  his  nose  in  the 
air  and  blew  once  or  twice  through  his  nostrils. 

"Smells  it,  the  son  of  a  gun !"  exclaimed  Cribbens.  The  dentist 
let  the  animal  have  his  head,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  had  brought 
them  to  the  bed  of  a  tiny  canon  where  a  thin  stream  of  brackish 
water  filtered  over  a  ledge  of  rocks. 

"We'll  camp  here,"  observed  Cribbens,  "but  we  can't  turn  the 
horses  loose.  We'll  have  to  picket  'em  with  the  lariats.  I  saw  some 
loco-weed  back  here  a  piece,  and  if  they  get  to  eating  that,  they'll 
sure  go  plum  crazy.  The  burro  won't  eat  it,  but  I  wouldn't  trust 
the  others." 

A  new  life  began  for  McTeague.  After  breakfast  the  "pard- 
ners"  separated,  going  in  opposite  directions  along  the  slope  of  the 
range,  examining  rocks,  picking  and  chipping  at  ledges  and  bowl 
ders,  looking  for  signs,  prospecting.  McTeague  went  up  into  the 
little  canons  where  the  streams  had  cut  through  the  bed  rock,  search 
ing  for  veins  of  quartz,  breaking  out  this  quartz  when  he  had  found 
it,  pulverizing  and  panning  it.  Cribbens  hunted  for  "contacts," 
closely  examining  country  rocks  and  outcrops,  continually  on  the 
lookout  for  spots  where  sedimentary  and  igneous  rock  came  to 
gether. 

One  day,  after  a  week  of  prospecting,  they  met  unexpectedly  on 
the  slope  of  an  arroyo.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  "Hello,  pard- 
ner,"  exclaimed  Cribbens  as  he  came  down  to  where  McTeague  was 
bending  over  his  pan.  "What  luck?" 

The  dentist  emptied  his  pan  and  straightened  up.  "Nothing, 
nothing.  You  struck  anything?" 

"Not  a  trace.  Guess  we  might  as  well  be  moving  toward  camp." 
They  returned  together,  Cribbens  telling  the  dentist  of  a  group  of 
antelope  he  had  seen. 

"We  might  lay  off  to-morrow,  an'  see  if  we  can  plug  a  couple 
of  them  fellers.  Antelope  steak  would  go  pretty  well  after  beans 
an*  bacon  an*  coffee  week  in  an*  week  out" 


McTeague 

McTeague  was  answering,  when  Cribbens  interrupted  him  with 
an  exclamation  of  profound  disgust.  "I  thought  we  were  the  first 
to  prospect  along  in  here,  an'  now  look  at  that.  Don  t  it  make  you 

sick?" 

He  pointed  out  evidences  of  an  abandoned  prospectors  camp 
just  before  them— charred  ashes,  empty  tin  cans,  one  or  two  gold- 
miner's  pans,  and  a  broken  pick.  "Don't  that  make  you  sick?' 
muttered  Cribbens,  sucking  his  mustache  furiously.  "To  think  of 
us  mushheads  going  over  ground  that's  been  covered  already !  Say, 
pardner,  we'll  dig  out  of  here  to-morrow.  I've  been  thinking,  any 
how,  we'd  better  move  to  the  south;  that  water  of  ours  is  pretty 

low." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  guess  so,"  assented  the  dentist.     "There  ain't  any 

gold  here." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  protested  Cribbens  doggedly;  "there's  gold  all 
through  these  hills,  if  we  could  only  strike  it.  I  tell  you  what, 
pardner,  I  got  a  place  in  mind  where  I'll  bet  no  one  ain't  prospected 
—least  not  very  many.  There  don't  very  many  care  to  try  an'  get 
to  it.  It's  over  on  the  other  side  of  Death  Valley.  It's  called  Gold 
Mountain,  an'  there's  only  one  mine  been  located  there,  an'  it's  pay-* 
ing  like  a  nitrate  bed.  There  ain't  many  people  in  that  country, 
because  it's  all  hell  to  get  into.  First  place,  you  got  to  cross  Death 
Valley  and  strike  the  Armagosa  Range  fur  off  to  the  south.  Well, 
no  one  ain't  stuck  on  crossing  the  Valley,  not  if  they  can  help  it. 
But  we  could  work  down  the  Panamint  some  hundred  or  so  miles, 
maybe  two  hundred,  an'  fetch  around  by  the  Armagosa  River,  way 
to  the  south'erd.  We  could  prospect  on  the  way.  But  I  guess  the 
Armagosa'd  be  dried  up  at  this  season.  Anyhow,"  he  concluded, 
"we'll  move  camp  to  the  south  to-morrow.  We  got  to  get  new 
feed  an'  water  for  the  horses.  We'll  see  if  we  can  knock  over  a 
couple  of  antelope  to-morrow,  and  then  we'll  scoot." 

"I  ain't  got  a  gun,"  said  the  dentist;  "not  even  a  revolver.    I — " 

"Wait  a  second/'  said  Cribbens,  pausing  in  his  scramble  down 
the  side  of  one  of  the  smaller  gulches.  "Here's  some  slate 
here;  I  ain't  seen  no  slate  around  here  yet.  Let's  see  where  it 
goes  to." 

McTeague  followed  him  along  the  side  of  the  gulch.  Cribbens 
went  on  ahead,  muttering  to  himself  from  time  to  time: 

"Runs  right  along  here,  even  enough,  and  here's  water,  too. 
Didn't  know  this  stream  was  here ;  pretty  near  dry,  though.  Here's 
the  slate  again.  See  where  it  runs,  pardner?" 


McTeague  253 

"Look  at  it  up  there  ahead,"  said  McTeague.  "It  runs  right 
up  over  the  back  of  this  hill." 

"That's  right,"  assented  Cribbens.  "Hi!"  he  shouted  suddenly, 
"here's  a  'contact/and  here  it  is  again,  and  there,  and  yonder.  Oh, 
look  at  it,  will  you?  That's  grano-diorite  on  slate.  Couldn't  want 
it  any  more  distinct  than  that.  God!  if  we  could  only  find  the 
quartz  between  the  two  now." 

"Well,  there  it  is,"  exclaimed  McTeague.  "Look  on  ahead 
there ;  ain't  that  quartz  ?" 

"You're  shouting  right  out  loud,"  vociferated  Cribbens,  looking 
where  McTeague  was  pointing.  His  face  went  suddenly  pale. 
He  turned  to  the  dentist,  his  eyes  wide. 

"By  God,  pardner,"  he  exclaimed  breathlessly.  "By  God — "  he 
broke  off  abruptly. 

"That's  what  you  been  looking  for,  ain't  it?"  asked  the  dentist. 

"Looking  for !  Looking  for !"  Cribbens  checked  himself. 
"That's  slate  all  right,  and  that's  grano-diorite,  /  know" — he  bent 
down  and  examined  the  rock — "and  here's  the  quartz  between  'em ; 
there  can't  be  no  mistake  about  that.  Gi'  me  that  hammer,"  he  cried 
excitedly.  "Come  on,  git  to  work.  Jab  into  the  quartz  with  your 
pick ;  git  out  some  chunks  of  it."  Cribbens  went  down  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  attacking  the  quartz  vein  furiously.  The  dentist  followed 
his  example,  swinging  his  pick  with  enormous  force,  splintering 
the  rocks  at  every  stroke.  Cribbens  was  talking  to  himself  in  his 
excitement. 

"Got  you  this  time,  you  son  of  a  gun !  By  God !  I  guess  we  got 
you  this  time,  at  last.  Looks  like  it,  anyhow.  Get  a  move  on,  pard 
ner.  There  ain't  anybody  'round,  is  there?  Hey?"  Without  look 
ing,  he  drew  his  revolver  and  threw  it  to  the  dentist.  "Take  the 
gun  an*  look  around,  pardner.  If  you  see  any  son  of  a  gun,  any 
where,  plug  him.  This  yere's  our  claim.  I  guess  we  got  it  this 
time,  pardner.  Come  on."  He  gathered  up  the  chunks  of  quartz 
he  had  broken  out,  and  put  them  in  his  hat  and  started  toward  their 
camp.  The  two  went  along  with  great  strides,  hurrying  as  fast 
as  they  could  over  the  uneven  ground. 

"I  don'  know,"  exclaimed  Cribbens  breathlessly,  "I  don'  want  to 
say  too  much.  Maybe  we're  fooled.  Lord,  that  damn  camp's  a  long 
ways  off.  Oh,  I  ain't  goin'  to  fool  along  this  way.  Come  on,  pard 
ner."  He  broke  into  a  run.  McTeague  followed  at  a  lumbering 
gallop.  Over  the  scorched,  parched  ground,  stumbling  and  tripping 
over  sage-brush  and  sharp-pointed  rocks,  under  the  palpitating  heat 


McTeague 

of  the  desert  sun,  they  ran  and  scrambled,  carrying  the  quartz  lumps 
in  their  hats. 

"See  any  ' color'  in  it,  pardner?"  gasped  Cribbens.  "I  can't,  can 
you?  'Twouldn't  be  visible  nohow,  I  guess.  Hurry  up.  Lord,  we 
ain't  ever  going  to  get  to  that  camp." 

Finally  they  arrived.  Cribbens  dumped  the  quartz  fragments 
into  a  pan. 

"You  pestle  her,  pardner,  an'  I'll  fix  the  scales."  McTeague 
ground  the  lumps  to  fine  dust  in  the  iron  mortar  while  Cribbens  set 
up  the  tiny  scales  and  got  out  the  "spoons"  from  their  outfit. 

"That's  fine  enough,"  Cribbens  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "Now 
we'll  spoon  her.  Gi'  me  the  water." 

Cribbens  scooped  up  a  spoonful  of  the  fine  white  powder  and 
began  to  spoon  it  carefully.  The  two  were  on  their  hands  and  knees 
upon  the  ground,  their  heads  close  together,  still  panting  with 
excitement  and  the  exertion  of  their  run. 

"Can't  do  it,"  exclaimed  Cribbens,  sitting  back  on  his  heels, 
"hand  shakes  so.  You  take  it,  pardner.  Careful,  now." 

McTeague  took  the  horn  spoon  and  began  rocking  it  gently  in  his 
huge  fingers,  sluicing  the  water  over  the  edge  a  little  at  a  time, 
each  movement  washing  away  a  little  more  of  the  powdered  quartz. 
The  two  watched  it  with  the  intensest  eagerness. 

"Don't  see  it  yet ;  don't  see  it  yet,"  whispered  Cribbens,  chewing 
his  mustache.  "Leetle  faster,  pardner.  That's  the  ticket.  Careful, 
steady,  now-;  leetle  more,  leetle  more.  Don't  see  color  yet,  do 
you?" 

The  quartz  sediment  dwindled  by  degrees  as  McTeague  spooned 
it  steadily.  Then  at  last  a  thin  streak  of  a  foreign  substance  began 
to  show  just  along  the  edge.  It  was  yellow. 

Neither  spoke.  Cribbens  dug  his  nails  into  the  sand,  and  ground 
his  mustache  between  his  teeth.  The  yellow  streak  broadened  as  the 
quartz  sediment  washed  away.  Cribbens  whispered : 

"We  got  it,  pardner.    That's  gold." 

McTeague  washed  the  last  of  the  white  quartz  dust  away,  and 
let  the  water  trickle  after  it.  A  pinch  of  gold,  fine  as  flour,  was 
left  in  the  bottom  of  the  spoon. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said.  The 'two  looked  at  each  other.  Then 
Cribbens  rose  into  the  air  with  a  great  leap  and  a  yell  that  could 
have  been  heard  for  half  a  mile. 

"Yee-e-ow !  We  got  it,  we  struck  it.  Pardner,  we  got  it.  Out 
of  sight.  We're  millionaires."  He  snatched  up  his  revolver  and 


McTeague 

fired  it  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  "Put  it  there,  old  man/*  he 
shouted,  gripping  McTeague's  palm. 

"That's  gold,  all  right,"  muttered  McTeague,  studying  the  con 
tents  of  the  spoon. 

"You  bet  your  great-grandma's  Cochin-China  Chessy  cat  it's 
gold/'  shouted  Cribbens.  "Here,  now,  we  got  a  lot  to  do.  We  got  to 
stake  her  out  an*  put  up  the  location  notice.  We'll  take  our  full 
acreage,  you  bet.  You — we  haven't  weighed  this  yet.  Where's  the 
scales  ?"  He  weighed  the  pinch  of  gold  with  shaking  hands.  "Two 
grains,"  he  cried.  "That'll  run  five  dollars  to  the  ton.  Rich,  it's 
rich;  it's  the  richest  kind  of  pay,  pardner.  We're  millionaires. 
Why  don't  you  say  something?  Why  don't  you  get  excited?  Why 
don't  you  run  around  an'  do  something." 

"Huh!"  said  McTeague,  rolling  his  eyes.  "Huh!  /  know,  I 
know,  we've  struck  it  pretty  rich." 

"Come  on,"  exclaimed  Cribbens,  jumping  up  again.  "We'll 
stake  her  out  an*  put  up  the  location  notice.  Lord,  suppose  any  one 
should  have  come  on  her  while  we've  been  away."  He  reloaded  his 
revolver  deliberately.  "We'll  drop  him  all  right,  if  there's  any  one 
fooling  around  there;  I'll  tell  you  that  right  now.  Bring  the  rifle, 
pardner,  an'  if  you  see  any  one,  plug  him,  an'  ask  him  what  he  wants 
afterward." 

They  hurried  back  to  where  they  had  made  their  discovery. 

"To  think,"  exclaimed  Cribbens,  as  he  drove  the  first  stake,  "to 
think  those  other  mushheads  had  their  camp  within  gunshot  of  her 
and  never  located  her.  Guess  they  didn't  know  the  meaning  of  a 
'contact.'  Oh,  I  knew  I  was  solid  on  'contacts/  " 

They  staked  out  their  claim,  and  Cribbens  put  up  the  notice  of 
location.  It  was  dark  before  they  were  through.  Cribbens  broke 
off  some  more  chunks  of  quartz  in  the  vein. 

"I'll  spoon  this,  too,  just  for  the  fun  of  it,  when  I  get  home," 
he  explained,  as  they  tramped  back  to  the  camp. 

"Well,"  said  the  dentist,  "we  got  the  laugh  on  those  cowboys." 

"Have  we?"  shouted  Cribbens.  "Have  we?  Just  wait  and  see 
the  rush  for  this  place  when  we  tell  'em  about  it  down  in  Keeler. 
Say,  what'll  we  call  her?" 

"I  don'  know,  I  don'  know." 

"We  might  call  her  the  'Last  Chance.'  'Twas  our  last  chance, 
wasn't  it?  We'd  'a'  gone  antelope  shooting  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day  we'd  V— say,  what  you  stopping  for?"  he  added,  inter 
rupting  himself.  "What's  up." 


256  McTeaguc 

The  dentist  had  paused  abruptly  on  the  crest  of  a  cation.  Crib- 
bens,  looking  back,  saw  him  standing  motionless  in  his  tracks. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Cribbens  a  second  time. 

McTeague  slowly  turned  his  head  and  looked  over  one  shoulder, 
then  over  the  other.  Suddenly  he  wheeled  sharply  about,  cocking 
the  Winchester  and  tossing  it  to  his  shoulder. 

Cribbens  ran  back  to  his  side,  whipping  out  his  revolver. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried.  "See  anybody?"  He  peered  on  ahead 
through  the  gathering  twilight. 

"No,  no." 

"Hear  anything?" 

"No,  didn't  hear  anything." 

"What  is  it  then?    What's  up?" 

"I  don'  know,  I  don'  know,"  muttered  the  dentist,  lowering  the 
rifle.  "There  was  something." 

"What?" 

"Something — didn't  you  notice  ?" 

"Notice  what?" 

"I  don'  know.     Something — something  or  other." 

"Who?    What?    Notice  what?    What  did  you  see?55 

The  dentist  let  down  the  hammer  of  the  rifle. 

"I  guess  it  wasn't  anything,"  he  said  rather  foolishly. 

"What  d'you  think  you  saw — anybody  on  the  claim?" 

"I  didn't  see  anything.  I  didn't  hear  anything,  either.  I_had 
an  idea,  that's  all;  came  all  of  a  sudden,  like  that.  Something,  I 
don'  know  what." 

"I  guess  you  just  imagined  something.  There  ain't  anybody 
within  twenty  miles  of  us,  I  guess." 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,  just  imagined  it,  that's  the  word." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  had  the  fire  going.  McTeague  was 
frying  strips  of  bacon  over  the  coals,  and  Cribbens  was  still  chat 
tering  and  exclaiming  over  their  great  strike.  All  at  once  Mc 
Teague  put  down  the  frying-pan. 

"What's  that?"  he  growled. 

"Hey?    What's  what?"  exclaimed  Cribbens,  getting  up. 

"Didn't  you  notice  something  ?" 

"Where?" 

"Off  there."  The  dentist  made  a  vague  gesture  toward  the 
eastern  horizon.  "Didn't  you  hear  something — I  mean  see  some 
thing — I  mean — " 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  pardner?" 


McTeague  257 

"Nothing.     I  guess  I  just  imagined  it. ' 

But  it  was  not  imagination.  Until  midnight  the  partners  lay 
broad  awake,  rolled  in  their  blankets  under  the  open  sky,  talking 
and  discussing  and  making  plans.  At  last  Cribbens  rolled  over 
on  his  side  and  slept.  The  dentist  could  not  sleep. 

What !  It  was  warning  him  again,  that  strange  sixth  sense,  that  ! 
obscure  brute  instinct.  It  was  aroused  again  and  clamoring  to  be 
obeyed.  Here,  in  these  desolate  barren  hills,  twenty  miles  from 
the  nearest  human  being,  it  stirred  and  woke  and  roweled  him  to 
be  moving  on.  It  had  goaded  him  to  flight  from  the  Big  Dipper 
mine,  and  he  had  obeyed.  But  now  it  was  different;  now  he  had 
suddenly  become  rich ;  he  had  lighted  on  a  treasure — a  treasure  far 
more  valuable  than  the  Big  Dipper  mine  itself.  How  was  he  to 
leave  that?  He  could  not  move  on  now.  He  turned  about  in  his 
blankets.  No,  he  would  not  move  on.  Perhaps  it  was  his  fancy, 
after  all.  He  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing.  The  emptiness  of 
primeval  desolation  stretched  from  him  leagues  and  leagues  upon 
either  hand.  The  gigantic  silence  of  the  night  lay  close  over  every 
thing,  like  a  muffling  Titanic  palm.  Of  what  was  he  suspicious? 
In  that  treeless  waste  an  object  could  be  seen  at  half  a  day's  journey 
distant.  In  that  vast  silence  the  click  of  a  pebble  was  as  audible 
as  a  pistol-shot.  And  yet  there  was  nothing,  nothing. 

The  dentist  settled  himself  in  his  blankets  and  tried  to  sleep. 
In  five  minutes  he  was  sitting  up,  staring  into  the  blue-gray  shim 
mer  of  the  moonlight,  straining  his  ears,  watching  and  listening 
intently.  Nothing  was  in  sight.  The  browned  and  broken  flanks  of 
the  Panamint  hills  lay  quiet  and  familiar  under  the  moon.  The 
burro  moved  its  head  with  a  clinking  of  its  bell;  and  McTeague's 
mule,  dozing  on  three  legs,  changed  its  weight  to  another  foot, 
with  a  long  breath.  Everything  fell  silent  again. 

"What  is  it?"  muttered  the  dentist.  "If  I  could  only  see  some 
thing,  hear  something." 

He  threw  off  the  blankets,  and,  rising,  climbed  to  the  summit 
of  the  nearest  hill  and  looked  back  in  the  direction  in  which  he  and 
Cribbens  had  traveled  a  fortnight  before.  For  half  an  hour  he 
waited,  watching  and  listening  in  vain.  But  as  he  returned  to  camp, 
and  prepared  to  roll  his  blankets  about  him,  the  strange  impulse 
rose  in  him  again  abruptly,  never  so  strong,  never  so  insistent.  It 
seemed  as  though  he  were  bitted  and  ridden;  as  if  some  unseen 
hand  were  turning  him  toward  the  east;  some  unseen  heel  spurring 
him  to  precipitate  and  instant  flight. 


258  McTeague 

Flight  from  what?  "No,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  "Go 
now  and  leave  the  claim,  and  leave  a  fortune !  What  a  fool  I'd  be, 
when  I  v,an't  see  anything  or  hear  anything.  To  leave  a  fortune! 
No,  I  won't.  No,  by  God!"  He  drew  Cribbens's  Winchester  to 
ward  him  and  slipped  a  cartridge  into  the  magazine. 

"No,"  he  growled.  "Whatever  happens,  I'm  going  to  stay.  If 
anybody  comes —  He  depressed  the  lever  of  the  rifle,  and  sent 
the  cartridge  clashing  into  the  breech. 

"I  ain't  going  to  sleep,"  he  muttered  under  his  mustache.  "I 
can't  sleep;  I'll  watch."  He  rose  a  second  time,  clambered  to  the 
nearest  hilltop  and  sat  down,  drawing  the  blanket  around  him,  and 
laying  the  Winchester  across  his  knees.  The  hours  passed.  The 
dentist  sat  on  the  hilltop  a  motionless,  crouching  figure,  inky  black 
against  the  pale  blur  of  the  sky.  By  and  by  the  edge  of  the  eastern 
horizon  began  to  grow  blacker  and  more  distinct  in  outline.  The 
dawn  was  coming.  Once  more  McTeague  felt  the  mysterious  in 
tuition  of  approaching  danger;  an  unseen  hand  seemed  reining  his 
head  eastward;  a  spur  was  in  his  flanks  that  seemed  to  urge  him 
to  hurry,  hurry,  hurry.  The  influence  grew  stronger  with  every 
moment.  The  dentist  set  his  great  jaws  together  and  held  his 
ground. 

"No,"  he  growled  between  his  set  teeth.  "No,  I'll  stay."  He 
made  a  long  circuit  around  the  camp,  even  going  as  far  as  the  first 
stake  of  the  new  claim,  his  Winchester  cocked,  his  ears  pricked,  his 
eyes  alert.  There  was  nothing;  yet  as  plainly  as  though  it  were 
shouted  at  the  very  nape  of  his  neck  he  felt  an  enemy.  It  was  not 
fear.  McTeague  was  not  afraid. 

"If  I  could  only  see  something — somebody,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
held  the  cocked  rifle  ready,  "I— I'd  show  him." 

He  returned  to  camp.  Cribbens  was  snoring.  The  burro  had 
come  down  to  the  stream  for  its  morning  drink.  The  mule  was 
awake  and  browsing.  McTeague  stood  irresolutely  by  the  cold 
ashes  of  the  camp-fire,  looking  from  side  to  side  with  all  the  sus 
picion  and  wariness  of  a  tracked  stag.  Stronger  and  stronger  grew 
the  strange  impulse.  It  seemed  to  him  that  on  the  next  instant  he 
must  perforce  wheel  sharply  eastward  and  rush  away  headlong  in 
a  clumsy,  lumbering  gallop.  He  fought  against  it  with  all  the 
ferocious  obstinacy  of  his  simple  brute  nature. 

"Go,  and  leave  the  mine?  Go  and  leave  a  million  dollars?  No, 
no,  I  won't  go.  No,  I'll  stay.  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath, 
with  a  shake  of  his  huge  head,  like  an  exasperated  and  harassed 


McTeague  259 

brute,  "ah,  show  yourself,  will  you?"  He  brought  the  rifle  to  his 
shoulder  and  covered  point  after  point  along  the  range  of  hills  to 
the  west.  "Come  on,  show  yourself.  Come  on  a  little,  all  of  you. 
I  ain't  afraid  of  you;  but  don't  skulk  this  way.  You  ain't  going  to 
drive  me  away  from  my  mine.  I'm  going  to  stay." 

An  hour  passed.  Then  two.  The  stars  winked  out,  and  the 
dawn  whitened.  The  air  became  warmer.  The  whole  east,  clean  of 
clouds,  flamed  opalescent  from  horizon  to  zenith,  crimson  at  the 
base,  where  the  earth  blackened  against  it;  at  the  top  fading  from 
pink  to  pale  yellow,  to  green,  to  light  blue,  to  the  turquoise  iri 
descence  of  the  desert  sky.  The  long,  thin  shadows  of  the  early 
hours  drew  backward  like  receding  serpents,  then  suddenly  the  sun 
looked  over  the  shoulder  of  the  world,  and  it  was  day. 

At  that  moment  McTeague  was  already  eight  miles  away  from 
the  camp,  going  steadily  eastward.  He  was  descending  the  lowest 
spurs  of  the  Panamint  hills,  following  an  old  and  faint  cattle  trail. 
Before  him  he  drove  his  mule,  laden  with  blankets,  provisions  for 
six  days,  Cribbens's  rifle,  and  a  canteen  full  of  water.  Securely  bound 
to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  was  the  canvas  sack  with  its  precious 
five  thousand  dollars,  all  in  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces.  But  strange 
enough  in  that  horrid  waste  of  sand  and  sage  was  the  object  that 
McTeague  himself  persistently  carried — the  canary  in  its  cage, 
about  which  he  had  carefully  wrapped  a  couple  of  old  flour-bags. 

At  about  five  o'clock  that  morning  McTeague  had  crossed  sev 
eral  trails  which  seemed  to  be  converging,  and,  guessing  that  they 
led  to  a  water  hole,  had  followed  one  of  them  and  had  brought  up 
at  a  sort  of  small  sun-dried  sink,  which,  nevertheless,  contained  a 
little  water  at  the  bottom.  He  watered  the  mule  here,  refilled  the 
canteen,  and  drank  deep  himself.  He  had  also  dampened  the  old 
flour  sacks  around  the  bird  cage  to  protect  the  little  canary  as  far 
as  possible  from  the  heat  that  he  knew  would  increase  now  with 
every  hour.  He  had  made  ready  to  go  forward  again,  but  had 
paused  irresolute  again,  hesitating  for  the  last  time. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  he  growled,  scowling  back  at  the  range  behind  him. 
"I'm  a  fool.  What's  the  matter  with  me?  I'm  just  walking  right 
away  from  a  million  dollars.  I  know  it's  there.  No,  by  God!"  he 
exclaimed,  savagely.  I  ain't  going  to  do  it.  I'm  going  back.  I 
can't  leave  a  mine  like  that."  He  had  wheeled  the  mule  about,  and 
had  started  to  return  on  his  tracks,  grinding  his  teeth  fiercely,  in 
clining  his  head  forward  as  though  butting  against  a  wind  that 
would  beat  him  back.  "Go  on,  go  on,"  he  cried,  sometimes  ad- 


a6o  McTeague 

dressing  the  mule,  sometimes  himself.  "Go  on,  go  back,  go  back." 
I  will  go  back."  It  was  as  though  he  were  climbing  a  hill  that 
grew  steeper  with  every  stride.  The  strange  impelling  instinct 
fought  his  advance  yard  by  yard.  By  degrees  the  dentist's  steps 
grew  slower;  he  stopped,  went  forward  again  cautiously,  almost 
feeling  his  way,  like  someone  approaching  a  pit  in  the  darkness. 
He  stopped  again,  hesitating,  gnashing  his  teeth,  clinching  his  fists 
with  blind  fury.  Suddenly  he  turned  the  mule  about,  and  once 
more  set  his  face  to  the  eastward. 

"I  can't,"  he  cried  aloud  to  the  desert;  '1  can't,  I  can't.     It's 
stronger  than  I  am.     I  can't  go  back.     Hurry  now,  hurry,  hurry7 
hurry." 

He  hastened  on  furtively,  his  head  and  shoulders  bent.  At  times 
one  could  almost  say  he  crouched  as  he  pushed  forward  with  long 
strides ;  now  and  then  he  even  looked  over  his  shoulder.  Sweat 
rolled  from  him,  he  lost  his  hat,  and  the  matted  mane  of  thick  yellow 
hair  swept  over  his  forehead  and  shaded  his  small  twinkling  eyes. 
At  times  with  a  vague,  nearly  automatic  gesture,  he  reached  his 
hand  forward,  the  fingers  prehensile,  and  directed  toward  the  hori 
zon,  as  if  he  would  clutch  it  and  draw  it  nearer;  and  at  intervals 
he  muttered,  "Hurry,  hurry,  hurry  on,  hurry  on."  For  now  at  last 
McTeague  was  afraid. 

His  plans  were  uncertain.  He  remembered  what  Cribbens  had 
said  about  the  Armagosa  Mountains  in  the  country  on  the  other 
side  of  Death  Valley.  It  was  all  hell  to  get  into  that  country,  Crib 
bens  had  said,  and  not  many  men  went  there,  because  of  the  terrible 
valley  of  alkali  that  barred  the  way,  a  horrible  vast  sink  of  white 
sand  and  salt  below  even  the  sea  level,  the  dry  bed,  no  doubt,  of 
some  prehistoric  lake.  But  McTeague  resolved  to  make  a  circuit 
of  the  valley,  keeping  to  the  south,  until  he  should  strike  the  Arma 
gosa  River.  He  would  make  a  circuit  of  the  valley  and  come  up 
on  the  other  side.  He  would  get  into  that  country  around  Gold 
Mountain  in  the  Armagosa  hills,  barred  off  from  the  world  by  the 
leagues  of  the  red-hot  alkali  of  Death  Valley.  "They"  would  hard 
ly  reach  him  there.  He  would  stay  at  Gold  Mountain  two  or  three 
months,  and  then  work  his  way  down  into  Mexico. 

McTeague  tramped  steadily-  forward,  still  descending  the  lower 
irregularities  of  the  Panamint  Range.  By  nine  o'clock  the  slope 
flattened  out  abruptly;  the  hills  were  behind  him;  before  him,  to 
the  east,  all  was  level.  He  had  reached  the  region  where  even  the 
sand  and  sage-brush  begin  to  dwindle,  giving  place  to  white,  pow- 


McTeague  261 

dered  alkali.  The  trails  were  numerous,  but  old  and  faint;  and 
they  had  been  made  by  cattle,  not  by  men.  They  led  in  all  direc 
tions  but  one — north,  south,  and  west;  but  not  one,  however  faint, 
struck  out  toward  the  valley. 

"If  I  keep  along  the  edge  of  the  hills  where  these  trails  are," 
muttered  the  dentist,  "I  ought  to  find  water  up  in  the  arroyos  from 
time  to  time." 

At  once  he  uttered  an  exclamation.  The  mule  had  begun  to 
squeal  and  lash  out  with  alternate  hoofs,  his  eyes  rolling,  his  ears 
flattened.  He  ran  a  few  steps,  halted,  and  squealed  again.  Then, 
suddenly  wheeling  at  right  angles,  set  off  on  a  jog  trot  to  the  north, 
squealing  and  kicking  from  time  to  time.  McTeague  ran  after 
him,  shouting  and  swearing,  but  for  a  long  time  the  mule  would 
not  allow  himself  to  be  caught.  He  seemed  more  bewildered  than 
frightened. 

"He's  eatun  some  of  that  loco-weed  that  Cribbens  spoke  about," 
panted  McTeague.  "Whoa,  there;  steady,  you."  At  length  the 
mule  stopped  of  his  own  accord,  and  seemed  to  come  to  his  senses 
again.  McTeague  came  up  and  took  the  bridle  rein,  speaking  to 
him  and  rubbing  his  nose. 

"There,  there,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  The  mule  was 
docile  again.  McTeague  washed  his  mouth  and  set  forward  once 
more. 

The  day  was  magnificent.  From  horizon  to  horizon  was  one 
vast  span  of  blue,  whitening  as  it  dipped  earthward.  Miles  upon 
miles  to  the  east  and  southeast  the  desert  unrolled  itself,  white, 
naked,  inhospitable,  palpitating  and  shimmering  under  the  sun, 
unbroken  by  so  much  as  a  rock  or  cactus  stump.  In  the  distance  it 
assumed  all  manner  of  faint  colors,  pink,  purple,  and  pale  orange. 
To  the  west  rose  the  Panamint  Range,  sparsely  sprinkled  with  gray 
sage-brush ;  here  the  earths  and  sands  were  yellow,  ochre,  and  rich, 
deep  red,  the  hollows  and  canons  picked  out  with  intense  blue 
shadows.  It  seemed  strange  that  such  barrenness  could  exhibit 
this  radiance  of  color,  but  nothing  could  have  been  more  beautiful 
than  the  deep  red  of  the  higher  bluffs  and  ridges,  seamed  with  pur 
ple  shadows,  standing  sharply  out  against  the  pale-blue  whiteness 
of  the  horizon. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  sun  stood  high  in  the  sky.  The  heat  was 
intense;  the  atmosphere  was  thick  and  heavy  with  it.  McTeague 
gasped  for  breath  and  wiped  the  beads  of  perspiration  from  his 
forehead,  his  cheeks,  and  his  neck.  Every  inch  and  pore  of  his 


262  McTeague 

Ain  was  tingling  and  pricking  under  the  merciless  lash  of  the  sun's 
rays. 

"If  it  gets  much  hotter,"  he  muttered,  with  a  long  breath,  "if  it 
gets  much  hotter,  I — I  don'  know — "  he  wagged  his  head  and  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  eyelids,  where  it  was  running  like  tears. 

The  sun  rose  higher ;  hour  by  hour,  as  the  dentist  tramped  stead 
ily  on,  the  heat  increased.  The  baked  dry  sand  crackled  into  in 
numerable  tiny  flakes  under  his  feet.  The  twigs  of  the  sage-brush 
snapped  like  brittle  pipestems  as  he  pushed  through  them.  It 
grew  hotter.  At  eleven  the  earth  was  like  the  surface  of  a  furnace ; 
the  air,  as  McTeague  breathed  it  in,  was  hot  to  his  lips  and  the 
roof  of  his  mouth.  The  sun  was  a  disk  of  molten  brass  swimming 
in  the  burned-out  blue  of  the  sky.  McTeague  stripped  off  his 
woolen  shirt  and  even  unbuttoned  his  flannel  undershirt,  tying  a 
handkerchief  loosely  about  his  neck. 

"Lord!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  never  knew  it  could  get  as  hot  as 
this." 

The  heat  grew  steadily  fiercer.  All  distant  objects  were  visibly 
shimmering  and  palpitating  under  it.  At  noon  a  mirage  appeared 
on  the  hills  to  the  northwest.  McTeague  halted  the  mule  and  drank 
from  the  tepid  water  in  the  canteen,  dampening  the  sack  around  the 
canary's  cage.  As  soon  as  he  ceased  his  tramp  and  the  noise  of  his 
crunching,  grinding  footsteps  died  away,  the  silence,  vast,  illimita 
ble,  enfolded  him  like  an  immeasurable  tide.  From  all  that  gigantic 
landscape,  that  colossal  reach  of  baking  sand,  there  arose  not  a 
single  sound.  Not  a  twig  rattled,  not  an  insect  hummed,  not  a  bird 
or  beast  invaded  that  huge  solitude  with  call  or  cry.  Everything 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  to  north,  to  south,  to  east,  and  west, 
lay  inert,  absolutely  quiet  and  moveless  under  the  remorseless 
scourge  of  the  noon  sun.  The  very  shadows  shrank  away,  hiding 
under  sage-bushes,  retreating  to  the  furthest  nooks  and  crevices  in 
the  canons  of  the  hills.  All  the  world  was  one  gigantic,  blinding 
glare,  silent,  motionless :  "If  it  gets  much  hotter,"  murmured  the 
dentist  again,  moving  his  head  from  side  to  side,  "if  it  gets  much 
hotter,  I  don'  know  what  I'll  do." 

Steadily  the  heat  increased.  At  three  o'clock  it  was  even  more 
terrible  than  it  had  been  at  noon. 

"Ain't  it  ever  going  to  let  up?"  groaned  the  dentist,  rolling  his 
eyes  at  the  sky  of  hot  blue  brass.  Then,  as  he  spoke,  the  stillness 
was  abruptly  stabbed  through  and  through  by  a  shrill  sound  that 
seemed  to  come  from  all  sides  at  once.  It  ceased;  then,  as  Me- 


McTeague  263 

Teague  took  another  forward  step,  began  again  with  the  sudden 
ness  of  a  blow,  shriller,  nearer  at  hand,  a  hideous,  prolonged  note 
that  brought  both  man  and  mule  to  an  instant  halt. 

"I  know  what  that  is,"  exclaimed  the  dentist.  His  eyes  searched 
the  ground  swiftly  until  he  saw  what  he  expected  he  should  see — 
the  round  thick  coil,  the  slowly  waving  clover-shaped  head  and 
erect  whirring  tail  with  its  vibrant  rattles. 

For  fully  thirty  seconds  the  man  and  the  snake  remained  look 
ing  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  the  snake  uncoiled  and  swiftly 
wound  from  sight  amid  the  sage-brush.  McTeague  drew  breath 
again,  and  his  eyes  once  more  beheld  the  illimitable  leagues  of 
quivering  sand  and  alkali. 

"Good  Lord !  What  a  country !"  he  exclaimed.  But  his  voice 
was  trembling  as  he  urged  forward  the  mule  once  more. 

Fiercer  and  fiercer  grew  the  heat  as  the  afternoon  advanced. 
At  four  McTeague  stopped  again.  He  was  dripping  at  every  pore, 
but  there  was  no  relief  in  perspiration.  The  very  touch  of  his 
clothes  upon  his  body  was  unendurable.  The  mule's  ears  were 
drooping  and  his  tongue  lolled  from  his  mouth.  The  cattle  trails 
seemed  to  be  drawing  together  toward  a  common  point ;  perhaps  a 
water  hole  was  near  by. 

"I'll  have  to  lay  up,  sure,"  muttered  the  dentist.  "I  ain't  made 
to  travel  in  such  heat  as  this." 

He  drove  the  mule  up  into  one  of  the  larger  canons  and  halted 
in  the  shadow  of  a  pile  of  red  rock.  After  a  long  search  he  found 
water,  a  few  quarts,  warm  and  brackish,  at  the  bottom  of  a  hollow 
of  sun-cracked  mud ;  it  was  little  more  than  enough  to  water  the 
mule  and  refill  his  canteen.  Here  he  camped,  easing  the  mule  of  the 
saddle,  and  turning  him  loose  to  find  what  nourishment  he  might. 
A  few  hours  later  the  sun  set  in  a  cloudless  glory  of  red  and  gold, 
and  the  heat  became  by  degrees  less  intolerable.  McTeague  cooked 
his  supper,  chiefly  coffee  and  bacon,  and  watched  the  twilight  come 
on,  reveling  in  the  delicious  coolness  of  the  evening.  As  he  spread 
his  blankets  on  the  ground  he  resolved  that  hereafter  he  would 
travel  only  at  night,  laying  up  in  the  daytime  in  the  shade  of  the 
canons.  He  was  exhausted  with  his  terrible  day's  march.  Never 
in  his  life  had  sleep  seemed  so  sweet  to  him. 

But  suddenly  he  was  broad  awake,  his  jaded  senses  all  alert. 

"What  was  that?"  he  muttered.  "I  thought  I  heard  some 
thing — saw  something." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  reaching  for  the  Winchester.     Desolation 


264  McTeague 

lay  still  around  him.  There  was  not  a  sound  but  his  own  breathing ; 
on  the  face  of  the  desert  not  a  grain  of  sand  was  in  motion.  Mc 
Teague  looked  furtively  and  quickly  from  side  to  side,  his  teeth  set, 
his  eyes  rolling.  Once  more  the  rowel  was  in  his  flanks,  once  more 
an  unseen  hand  reined  him  toward  the  east.  After  all  the  miles  of 
that  dreadful  day's  flight  he  was  no  better  off  than  when  he  started. 
If  anything,  he  was  worse,  for  never  had  that  mysterious  instinct 
in  him  been  more  insistent  than  now ;  never  had  the  impulse  toward 
precipitate  flight  been  stronger;  never  had  the  spur  bit  deeper. 
Every  nerve  of  his  body  cried  aloud  for  rest;  yet  every  instinct 
seemed  aroused  and  alive,  goading  him  to  hurry  on,  to  hurry  on. 

"What  w/'iD  then?  What  is  it?"  he  cried,  between  his  teeth. 
"Can't  I  ever x^et  rid  of  you^?  Ain't  I  ever  going  to  shake  you  off? 
Don'  keep  it  up  this  way.  Show  yourselves.  Let's  have  it  out  right 
away.  Come  on.  I  ain't  afraid  if  you'll  only  come  on;  but  don't 
skulk  this  way."  Suddenly  he  cried  aloud  in  a  frenzy  of  exasper 
ation,  "Damn  you,  come  on,  will  you?  Come  on  and  have  it  out." 
His  rifle  was  at  his  shoulder,  he  was  covering  bush  after  bush,  rock 
after  rock,  aiming  at  every  denser  shadow.  All  at  once,  and  quite 
involuntarily,  his  forefinger  crooked,  and  the  rifle  spoke  and  flamed. 
The  canons  roared  back  the  echo,  tossing  it  out  far  over  the  desert 
in  a  rippling,  widening  wave  of  sound. 

McTeague  lowered  the  rifle  hastily,  with  an  exclamation  of  dis 
may. 

"You  fool,"  he  said  to  himself,  "you  fool.  You've  done  it  now. 
They  could  hear  that  miles  away.  You've  done  it  now." 

He  stood  listening  intently,  the  rifle  smoking  in  his  hands.  The 
last  echo  died  away.  The  smoke  vanished,  the  vast  silence  closed 
upon  the  passing  echoes  of  the  rifle  as  the  ocean  closes  upon  a  ship's 
wake.  Nothing  moved;  yet  McTeague  bestirred  himself  sharply, 
rolling  up  his  blankets,  resaddling  the  mule,  getting  his  outfit  to 
gether  again.  From  time  to  time  he  muttered: 

"Hurry  now;  hurry  on.  You  fool,  you've  done  it  now.  They 
could  hear  that  miles  away.  Hurry  now.  They  ain't  far  off 
now." 

As  he  depressed  the  lever  of  the  rifle  to  reload  it,  he  found  that 
the  magazine  was  empty.  He  clapped  his  hands  to  his  sides,  feeling 
rapidly  first  in  one  pocket,  then  in  another.  He  had  forgotten  to 
take  extra  cartridges  with  him.  McTeague  swore  under  his  breath 
as  he  flung  the  rifle  away.  Henceforth  he  must  travel  unarmed. 

A  little  more  water  had  gathered  in  the  mud  hole  near  which  he 


McTeague  265 

had  camped.  He  watered  the  mule  for  the  last  time  and  wet  the 
sacks  around  the  canary's  cage.  Then  once  more  he  set  forward. 

But  there  was  a  change  in  the  direction  of  McTeague's  flight. 
Hitherto  he  had  held  to  the  south,  keeping  upon  the  very  edge  of 
the  hills;  now  he  turned  sharply  at  right  angles.  The  slope  fell 
away  beneath  his  hurrying  feet;  the  sage-brush  dwindled,  and  at 
length  ceased ;  the  sand  gave  place  to  a  fine  powder,  white  as  snow ; 
and  an  hour  after  he  had  fired  the  rifle  his  mule's  hoofs  were  crisp 
ing  and  cracking  the  sun-baked  flakes  of  alkali  on  the  surface  of 
Death  Valley. 

Tracked  and  harried,  as  he  felt  himself  to  be,  from  one  camping 
place  to  another,  McTeague  had  suddenly  resolved  to  make  one  last 
effort  to  rid  himself  of  the  enemy  that  seemed  to  hang  upon  his 
heels.  He  would  strike  straight  out  into  that  horrible  wilderness 
where  even  the  beasts  were  afraid.  He  would  cross  Death  Valley 
at  once  and  put  its  arid  wastes  between  him  and  his  pursuer. 

"You  don't  dare  follow  me  now,"  he  muttered,  as  he  hurried  on. 
"Let's  see  you  come  out  here  after  me." 

He  hurried  on  swiftly,  urging  the  mule  to  a  rapid  racking  walk. 
Toward  four  o'clock  the  sky  in  front  of  him  began  to  flush  pink  and 
golden.  McTeague  halted  and  breakfasted,  pushing  on  again  im 
mediately  afterward.  The  dawn  flamed  and  glowed  like  a  brazier, 
and  the  sun  rose  a  vast  red-hot  coal  floating  in  fire.  An  hour  passed, 
then  another,  and  another.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock.  Once  more 
the  dentist  paused,  and  stood  panting  and  blowing,  his  arms  dan 
gling,  his  eyes  screwed  up  and  blinking  as  he  looked  about  him. 

Far  behind  him  the  Panamint  hills  were  already  but  blue  hum 
mocks  on  the  horizon.  Before  him  and  upon  either  side,  to  the 
north  and  to  the  east  and  to  the  south,  stretched  primordial  deso 
lation.  League  upon  league  the  infinite  reaches  of  dazzling  white 
alkali  laid  themselves  out  like  an  immeasurable  scroll  unrolled  from 
horizon  to  horizon ;  not  a  bush,  not  a  twig  relieved  that  horrible  mo 
notony.  Even  the  sand  of  the  desert  would  have  been  a  welcome 
sight ;  a  single  clump  of  sage-brush  would  have  fascinated  the  eye ; 
but  this  was  worse  than  the  desert.  It  was  abominable,  this  hideous 
sink  of  alkali,  this  bed  of  some  primeval  lake  lying  so  far  below 
the  level  of  the  ocean.  The  great  mountains  of  Placer  County  had 
been  merely  indifferent  to  man;  but  this  awful  sink  of  alkali  was 
openly  and  unreservedly  iniquitous  and  malignant. 

McTeague  had  told  himself  that  the  heat  upon  the  lower  slopes 
of  the  Panamint  had  been  dreadful ;  here  in  Death  Valley  it  became 

L— III— NORRIS 


266  McTeague 

a  thing  of  terror.  There  was  npjonger  any  shadow _but_his_,awn. 
He  was  scorched  and  parched  from  head  to  heel.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  smart  of  his  tortured  body  could  not  have  been  keener 
if  he  had  been  flayed. 

"If  it  gets  much  hotter,"  he  muttered,  wringing  the  sweat  from 
his  thick  fell  of  hair  and  mustache,  "if  it  gets  much  hotter,  I  don' 
know  what  I'll  do."  He  was  thirsty,  and  drank  a  little  from  his 
canteen.  "I  ain't  got  any  too  much  water,"  he  murmured,  shaking 
the  canteen.  "I  got  to  get  out  of  this  place  in  a  hurry,  sure." 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  heat  had  increased  to  such  an  extent  that 
McTeague  could  feel  the  burning  of  the  ground  come  prinking  and 
stinging  through  the  soles  of  his  boots.  Every  step  he  took  threw 
up  clouds  of  impalpable  alkali  dust,  salty  and  choking,  so  that  he 
strangled  and  coughed  and  sneezed  with  it. 

"Lord!  what  a  country!"  exclaimed  the  dentist. 

.        An  hour  later,  the  mule  stopped  and  lay  down,  his  jaws  wide 
/  open,  his  ears  dangling.    McTeague  washed  his  mouth  with  a  hand- 
'    ful  of  water  and  for  a  second  time  since  sunrise  wetted  the  flour- 
sacks  around  the  bird  cage.    The  air  was  quivering  and  palpitating 
like  that  in  the  stoke-hole  of  a  steamship.    The  sun,  small  and  con 
tracted,  swam  molten  overhead. 

"I  can't  stand  it,"  said  McTeague  at  length.  "I'll  have  to  stop 
and  make  some  kinda  shade." 

The  mule  was  crouched  upon  the  ground,  panting  rapidly,  with 
half-closed  eyes.  The  dentist  removed  the  saddle,  and,  unrolling 
his  blanket,  propped  it  up  as  best  he  could  between  him  and  the 
sun.  As  he  stooped  down  to  crawl  beneath  it,  his  palm  touched 
the  ground.  He  snatched  it  away  with  a  cry  of  pain.  The  surface 
alkali  was  oven-hot ;  he  was  obliged  to  scoop  out  a  trench  in  it  be 
fore  he  dared  to  lie  down. 

By  degrees  the  dentist  began  to  doze.     He  had  had  little  or  no 

sleep  the  night  before,  and  the  hurry  of  his  flight  under  the  blazing 

sun  had  exhausted  him.    But  his  rest  was  broken ;  between  waking 

and  sleeping,  all  manner  of  troublous  images  galloped  through  his 

brain.     He  thought  he  was  back  in  the  Panamint  hills  again  with 

Cribbens.     They  had  just  discovered  the  mine  and  were  returning 

/  f  toward  camp.     McTeague   saw  himself  as   another  man,   striding 

1    along  over  the  sand  and  sage-brush.    At  once  he  saw  himself  stop 

v  and   wheel   sharply   about,   peering  back  suspiciously.     There   was 

something  behind  him ;  something  was  following  him.     He  looked, 

as  it  were,  over  the  shoulder  of  this  other  McTeague,  and  saw  down 


McTeague  267 

there,  in  the  half  light  of  the  canon,  something  dark  crawling  upon 
the  ground,  an  indistinct  gray  figure,  man  or  brute,  he  did  not 
know.  Then  he  saw  another,  and  another ;  then  another.  A  score 
of  black,  crawling  objects  were  following  him,  crawling  from  bush 
to  bush,  converging  upon  him.  "They?  were  after  him,  were  clos 
ing  in  upon  him,  were  within  touch"  of  his  hand,  were  at  his  feet — 
were  at  his  throat. 

McTeague  jumped  up  with  a  shout,  oversetting  the  blanket. 
There  was  nothing  in  sight.  For  miles  around,  the  alkali  was 
empty,  solitary,  quivering  and  shimmering  under  the  pelting  fire  of 
the  afternoon's  sun. 

But  once  more  the  spur  bit  into  his  body,  goading  him  on. 
There  was  to  be  no  rest,  no  going  back,  no  pause,  no  stop.  Hurry, 
hurry,  hurry  on.  The  brute  that  in  him  slept  so  close  to  the  surface 
was  alive  and  alert,  and  tugging  to  be  gone.  There  was  no  resist 
ing  that  instinct.  The  brute  felt  an  enemy,  scented  the  trackers, 
clamored  and  struggled  and  fought,  and  would  not  be  gainsaid. 

"I  can't  go  on,"  groaned  McTeague,  his  eyes  sweeping  the  hori 
zon  behind  him,  "I'm  beat  out.  I'm  dog  tired.  I  ain't  slept  any  for 
two  nights."  But  for  all  that  he  roused  himself  again,  saddled  the 
mule,  scarcely  less  exhausted  than  himself,  and  pushed  on  once 
more  over  the  scorching  alkali  and  under  the  blazing  sun. 

From  that  time  on  the  fear  never  left  him,  the  spur  never  ceased 
to  bite,  the  instinct  that  goaded  him  to  flight  never  was  dumb; 
hurry  or  halt,  it  was  all  the  same.  On  he  went,  straight  on,  chasing 
the  receding  horizon;  flagellated  with  heat;  tortured  with  thirst; 
Crouching  over ;  looking  furtively  behind,  and  at  times  reaching  his 
hand  forward,  the  fingers  prehensile,  grasping,  as  it  were,  toward 
the  horizon,  that  always  fled  before  him. 

The  sun  set  upon  the  third  day  of  McTeague's  flight,  night  came 
on,  the  stars  burned  slowly  into  the  cool  dark  purple  of  the  sky. 
The  gigantic  sink  of  white  alkali  glowed  like  snow.  McTeague, 
now  far  into  the  desert,  held  steadily  on,  swinging  forward  with 
great  strides.  His  enormous  strength  held  him  doggedly  to  his 
work.  Sullenly,  with  his  huge  jaws  gripping  stolidly  together,  he 
pushed  on.  At  midnight  he  stopped. 

"Now,"  he  growled,  with  a  certain  desperate  defiance,  as  though 
he  expected  to  be  heard,  "Now,  I'm  going  to  lay  up  and  get  some 
sleep.  You  can  come  or  not." 

He  cleared  away  the  hot  surface  alkali,  spread  out  his  blanket, 
and  slept  until  the  next  day's  heat  aroused  him.  His  water  was 


268  McTeague 

so  low  that  he  dared  not  make  coffee  now,  and  so  breakfasted  with 
out  it.  Until  ten  o'clock  he  tramped  forward,  then  camped  again 
in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  rare  rock  ledges,  and  "lay  up"  during  the 
heat  of  the  day.  By  five  o'clock  he  was  once  more  on. the  march. 

He  traveled  on  for  the  greater  part  of  that  night,  stopping  only 
once  toward  three  in  the  morning  to  water  the  mule  from  the  can 
teen.  Again  the  red-hot  day  burned  up  over  the  horizon.  Even  at 
six  o'clock  it  was  hot. 

"It's  going  to  be  worse  than  ever  to-day/'  he  groaned.  "I  wish 
I  could  find  another  rock  to  camp  by.  Ain't  I  ever  going  to  get  out 
of  this  place?" 

There  was  no  change  in  the  character  of  the  desert.  Always 
the  same  measureless  leagues  of  white-hot  alkali  stretched  away 
toward  the  horizon  on  every  hand.  Here  and  there  the  flat,  daz 
zling  surface  of  the  desert  broke  and  raised  into  long  low  mounds, 
from  the  summit  of  which  McTeague  could  look  for  miles  and 
miles  over  its  horrible  desolation.  No  shade  was  in  sight.  Not  a 
rock,  not  a  stone  broke  the  monotony  of  the  ground.  Again  and 
again  he  ascended  the  low  unevennesses,  looking  and  searching  for  a 
camping  place,  shading  his  eyes  from  the  glitter  of  sand  and  sky. 

He  tramped  forward  a  little  further,  then  paused  at  length  in  a 
hollow  between  two  breaks,  resolving  to  make  camp  there. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shout. 

"Hands  up.     By  damn,  J  got  the  drop  on  you!" 

McTeague  looked  up. 

It  was  Marcus. 


XXII 

WITHIN  a  month  after  his  departure  from  San  Francisco,  Mar 
cus  had  "gone  in  on  a  cattle  ranch"  in  the  Panamint  Valley  with 
an  Englishman,  an  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Sieppe's.  His  headquar 
ters  were  at  a  place  called  Modoc,  at  the  lower  extremity  of  the 
valley,  about  fifty  miles  by  trail  to  the  south  of  Keeler. 

His  life  was  the  life  of  a  cowboy.  He  realized  his  former  vision 
of  himself,  booted,  sombreroed,  and  revolvered,  passing  his  days  in 
the  saddle  and  the  better  part  of  his  nights  around  the  poker  tables 
j  in  Modoc's  one  saloon.  To  his  intense  satisfaction  he  even  involved 
himself  in  a  gun  fight  that  arose  over  a  disputed  brand,  with  the 
result  that  two  fingers  of  his  left  hand  were  shot  away. 


McTeague  269 

News  from  the  outside  world  filtered  slowly  into  the  Panamint 
Valley,  and  the  telegraph  had  never  been  built  beyond  Keeler.  At 
intervals  one  of  the  local  papers  of  Independence,  the  nearest  large 
town,  found  its  way  into  the  cattle  camps  on  the  ranges,  and  occa 
sionally  one  of  the  Sunday  editions  of  a  Sacramento  journal,  weeks 
old,  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  Marcus  ceased  to  hear  from  the 
Sieppes.  As  for  San  Francisco,  it  was  as  far  from  him  as  was 
London  or  Vienna. 

One  day,  a  fortnight  after  McTeague's  flight  from  San  Fran 
cisco,  Marcus  rode  into  Modoc,  to  find  a  group  of  men  gathered 
about  a  notice  affixed  to  the  outside  of  the  Wells-Fargo  office.  It 
was  an  offer  of  reward  for  the  arrest  and  apprehension  of  a  mur 
derer.  The  crime  had  been  committed  in  San  Francisco,  but  the 
man  wanted  had  been  traced  as  far  as  the  western  portion  of  Inyo 
County,  and  was  believed  at  that  time  to  be  in  hiding  in  either  the 
Pinto  or  Panamint  hills,  in  the  vicinity  of  Keeler. 

Marcus  reached  Keeler  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day. 
Half  a  mile  from  the  town  his  pony  fell  and  died  from  exhaustion. 
Marcus  did  not  stop  even  to  remove  the  saddle.  He  arrived  in  the 
barroom  of  the  hotel  in  Keeler  just  after  the  posse  had  been  made 
up.  The  sheriff,  who  had  come  down  from  Independence  that  morn 
ing,  at  first  refused  his  offer  of  assistance.  He  had  enough  men 
already — too  many,  in  fact.  The  country  traveled  through  would 
be  hard,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  water  for  so  many  men 
and  horses. 

"But  none  of  you  fellers  have  ever  seen  um,"  vociferated  Mar 
cus,  quivering  with  excitement  and  wrath.  "I  know  um  well.  I 
could  pick  um  out  in  a  million.  I  can  identify  um,  and  you  fellers 
can't.  And  I  knew — I  knew — good  God!  I  knew  that  girl — his 
wife — in  Frisco.  She's  a  cousin  of  mine,  she  is — she  was — I  thought 
cnce  of—  This  thing's  a  personal  matter  of  mine — an'  that  money 
he  got  away  with,  that  five  thousand,  belongs  to  me  by  rights.  Oh, 
never  mind,  I'm  going  along.  Do  you  hear?"  he  shouted,  his  fists 
raised,  "I'm  going  along,  I  tell  you.  There  ain't  a  man  of  you  big 
enough  to  stop  me.  Let's  see  you  try  and  stop  me  going.  Let's  see 
you  once,  any  two  of  you."  He  filled  the  barroom  with  his  clamor. 

"Lord  love  you,  come  along,  then,"  said  the  sheriff. 

The  posse  rode  out  of  Keeler  that  same  night.  The  keeper  of 
the  general  merchandise  store,  from  whom  Marcus  had  borrowed 
a  second  pony,  had  informed  them  that  Cribbens  and  his  partner, 
whose  description  tallied  exactly  with  that  given  in  the  notice  of 


270  McTeague 

reward,  had  outfitted  at  his  place  with  a  view  to  prospecting  in  the 
Panamint  hills.  The  posse  trailed  them  at  once  to  their  first  camp, 
at  the  head  of  the  valley.  It  was  an  easy  matter.  It  was  only 
necessary  to  inquire  of  the  cowboys  and  range  riders  of  the  valley  if 
they  had  seen  and  noted  the  passage  of  two  men,  one  of  whom  car 
ried  a  bird  cage. 

Beyond  this  first  camp  the  trail  was  lost,  and  a  week  was  wasted 
in  a  bootless  search  around  the  mine  at  Gold  Gulch,  whither  it 
seemed  probable  the  partners  had  gone.  Then  a  traveling  pedler, 
who  included  Gold  Gulch  in  his  route,  brought  in  the  news  of  a 
wonderful  strike  of  gold-bearing  quartz  some  ten  miles  to  the 
south  on  the  western  slope  of  the  range.  The  two  men  from  Keeler 
had  made  a  strike,  the  pedler  had  said,  and  added  the  curious  detail 
that  one  of  the  men  had  a  canary  bird  in  a  cage  with  him. 

The  posse  made  Cribbens's  camp  three  days  after  the  unaccount 
able  disappearance  of  his  partner.  Their  man  was  gone,  but  the 
narrow  hoof  prints  of  a  mule,  mixed  with  those  of  huge  hob-nailed 
boots,  could  be  plainly  followed  in  the  sand.  Here  they  picked  up 
the  trail  and  held  to  it  steadily  till  the  point  was  reached  where, 
instead  of  tending  southward,  it  swerved  abruptly  to  the  east.  The 
men  could  hardly  believe  their  eyes. 

"It  ain't  reason,"  exclaimed  the  sheriff.  "What  in  thunder  is  he 
up  to?  This  beats  me.  Cutting  out  into  Death  Valley  at  this  time 
of  year." 

"He's  heading  for  Gold  Mountain  over  in  the  Armagosa,  sure." 

The  men  decided  that  this  conjecture  was  true.  It  was  the  only 
inhabited  locality  in  that  direction.  A  discussion  began  as  to  the 
further  movements  of  the  posse. 

"I  don't  figure  on  going  into  that  alkali  sink  with  no  eight  men 
and  horses,"  declared  the  sheriff.  "One  man  can't  carry  enough 
water  to  take  him  and  his  mount  across,  let  alone  eight.  No,  sir. 
Four  couldn't  do  it.  No,  three  couldn't.  We've  got  to  make  a  cir 
cuit  round  the  valley  and  come  up  on  the  other  side  and  head  him 
off  at  Gold  Mountain.  That's  what  we  got  to  do,  and  ride  like  hell 
to  do  it,  too." 

But  Marcus  protested  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs  against 
abadoning  the  trail  now  that  they  had  found  it.  He  argued  that 
they  were  but  a  day  and  a  half  behind  their  man  now.  There  was 
no  possibility  of  their  missing  the  trail — as  distinct  in  the  white 
alkali  as  in  snow.  They  could  make  a  dash  into  the  valley,  secure 
their  man,  and  return  long  before  their  water  failed  them.  He,  for 


McTeague  271 

one,  would  not  give  up  the  pursuit,  now  that  they  were  so  close. 
In  the  haste  of  the  departure  from  Keeler  the  sheriff  had  neglected 
to  swear  him  in.  He  was  under  no  orders.  He  would  do  as  he 
pleased. 

"Go  on,  then,  you  darn  fool,"  answered  the  sheriff.  "We'l!  cut 
on  round  the  valley,  for  all  that.  It's  a  gamble  he'll  be  at  Gold 
Mountain  before  you're  half-way  across.  But  if  you  catch  him, 
here" — he  tossed  Marcus  a  pair  of  handcuffs — "put  'em  on  him  and 
bring  him  back  to  Keeler." 

Two  days  after  he  had  left  the  posse,  and  when  he  was  already 
far  out  in  the  desert,  Marcus's  horse  gave  out.  In  the  fury  of  his 
impatience  he  had  spurred  mercilessly  forward  on  the  trail,  and  on 
the  morning  of  the  third  day  found  that  his  horse  was  unable  to 
move.  The  joints  of  his  legs  seemed  locked  rigidly.  He  would  go 
his  own  length,  stumbling  and  interfering,  then  collapse  helplessly 
upon  the  ground  with  a  pitiful  groan.  He  was  used  up. 

Marcus  believed  himself  to  be  close  upon  McTeague  now.  The 
ashes  at  his  last  camp  had  still  been  smouldering.  Marcus  took 
what  supplies  of  food  and  water  he  could  carry,  and  hurried  on. 
But  McTeague  was  further  ahead  than  he  had  guessed,  and  by 
evening  of  his  third  day  upon  the  desert  Marcus,  raging  with  thirst, 
had  drunk  his  last  mouthful  of  water  and  had  flung  away  the  empty 
canteen. 

"If  he  ain't  got  water  with  um,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  pushed 
on.  "If  he  ain't  got  water  with  um,  by  damn !  I'll  be  in  a  bad  way. 
I  will,  for  a  fact." 


At  Marcus's  shout  McTeague  looked  up  and  around  him.  For 
the  instant  he  saw  no  one.  The  white  glare  of  alkali  was  still  un 
broken.  Then  his  swiftly  rolling  eyes  lighted  upon  a  head  and 
shoulder  that  protruded  above  the  low  crest  of  the  break  directly  in 
front  of  him.  A  man  was  there,  lying  at  full  length  upon  the 
ground,  covering  him  with  a  revolver.  For  a  few  seconds  Mc 
Teague  looked  at  the  man  stupidly,  bewildered,  confused,  as  yet 
without  definite  thought.  Then  he  noticed  that  the  man  was  sin 
gularly  like  Marcus  Schouler.  It  was  Marcus  Schouler.  How  in 
the  world  did  Marcus  Schouler  come  to  be  in  that  desert?  What 
did  he  mean  by  pointing  a  pistol  at  him  that  way?  He'd  best  look 
out  or  the  pistol  would  go  off.  Then  his  thoughts  readjusted  them 
selves  with  a  swiftness  born  of  a  vivid  sense  of  danger.  Here  was 


McTeague 

the  enemy  at  last,  the  tracker  he  had  felt  upon  his  footsteps.  Now 
at  length  he  had  "come  on"  and  shown  himself,  after  all  those 
days  of  skulking.  McTeague  was  glad  of  it.  He'd  show  him 
now.  They  two  would  have  it  out  right  then  and  there.  His  rifle ! 
He  had  thrown  it  away  long  since.  He  was  helpless.  Marcus  had 
ordered  him  to  put  up  his  hands.  If  he  did  not,  Marcus  would  kill 
him.  He  had  the  drop  on  him.  McTeague  stared,  scowling  fiercely 
at  the  leveled  pistol.  He  did  not  move. 

"Hands  up!"  shouted  Marcus  a  second  time.  "I'll  give  you 
three  to  do  it  in.  One,  two — " 

Instinctively  McTeague  put  his  hands  above  his  head. 

Marcus  rose  and  came  toward  him  over  the  break. 

"Keep  'em  up,"  he  cried.  "If  you  move  'em  once  I'll  kill  you, 
sure." 

He  came  up  to  McTeague  and  searched  him,  going  through  his 
pockets;  but  McTeague  had  no  revolver;  not  even  a  hunting  knife. 

"What  did  you  do  with  that  money,  with  that  five  thousand 
dollars?" 

"It's  on  the  mule,"  answered  McTeague  sullenly. 

Marcus  grunted,  and  cast  a  glance  at  the  mule,  who  was  stand 
ing  some  distance  away,  snorting  nervously,  and  from  time  to  time 
flattening  his  long  ears. 

"Is  that  it  there  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  there  in  that  canvas 
sack?"  Marcus  demanded. 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

I         A  gleam  of  satisfaction  came  into  Marcus's  eyes,  and  under  his 
>   breath  he  muttered: 

"Got  it  at  last." 

He  was  singularly  puzzled  to  know  what  next  to  do.  He  had  got 
McTeague.  There  he  stood  at  length,  with  his  big  hands  over  his 
head,  scowling  at  him  sullenly.  Marcus  had  caught  his  enemy,  had 
run  down  the  man  for  whom  every  officer  in  the  State  had  been 
looking.  What  should  he  do  with  him  now  ?  He  couldn't  keep  him 
standing  there  forever  with  his  hands  over  his  head. 

"Got  any  water  ?"  he  demanded. 

"There's  a  canteen  of  water  on  the  mule." 

Marcus  moved  toward  the  mule  and  made  as  if  to  reach  the 
bridle-rein.  The  mule  squealed,  threw  up  his  head,  and  galloped  to  a 
little  distance,  rolling  his  eyes  and  flattening  his  ears. 

Marcus  swore  wrathfully. 

"He  acted  that  way  once  before,"  explained  McTeague,  his  hands 


McTeague  273 

still  in  the  air.    "He  ate  some  loco-weed  back  in  the  hills  before  I 
started." 

For  a  moment  Marcus  hesitated.  While  he  was  catching  the  mule 
McTeague  might  get  away.  But  where  to,  in  heaven's  name?  A 
rat  could  not  hide  on  the  surface  of  that  glistening  alkali,  and  besides, 
all  McTeague's  store  of  provisions  and  his  priceless  supply  of  water 
were  on  the  mule.  Marcus  ran  after  the  mule,  revolver  in  hand, 
shouting  and  cursing.  But  the  mule  would  not  be  caught.  He 
acted  as  if  possessed,  squealing,  lashing  out,  and  galloping  in  wide 
circles,  his  head  high  in  the  air. 

"Come  on,"  shouted  Marcus,  furious,  turning  back  to  McTeague. 
"Come  on,  help  me  catch  him.  We  got  to  catch  him.  All  the  water 
we  got  is  on  the  saddle." 

McTeague  came  up. 

"He's  eatun  some  loco-weed,"  he  repeated.  "He  went  kinda 
crazy  once  before." 

"If  he  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  bolt  and  keep  on  running — " 

Marcus  did  not  finish.  A  sudden  great  fear  seemed  to  widen  \ 
around  and  inclose  the  two  men.  Once  their  water  gone,  the  end  I 
would  not  be  long. 

"We  can  catch  him  all  right,"  said  the  dentist.  "I  caught  him 
once  before." 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  can  catch  him,"  answered  Marcus  reassuringly. 

Already  the  sense  of  enmity  between  the  two  had  weakened  in 
the  face  of  a  common  peril.  Marcus  let  down  the  hammer  of  his 
revolver  and  slid  it  back  into  the  holster. 

The  mule  was  trotting  on  ahead,  snorting  and  throwing  up  great 
clouds  of  alkali  dust.  At  every  step  the  canvas  sack  jingled,  and 
McTeague's  bird  cage,  still  wrapped  in  the  flour-bags,  bumped 
against  the  saddle-pads.  By  and  by  the  mule  stopped,  blowing  out 
his  nostrils  excitedly. 

"He's  clean  crazy,"  fumed  Marcus,  panting  and  swearing. 

"We  ought  to  come  upon  him  quiet,"  observed  McTeague. 

"I'll  try  and  sneak  up,"  said  Marcus ;  "two  of  us  would  scare  him 
again.  You  stay  here." 

Marcus  went  forward  a  step  at  a  time.  He  was  almost  within 
arm's  length  of  the  bridle  when  the  mule  shied  from  him  abruptly 
and  galloped  away. 

Marcus  danced  with  rage,  shaking  his  fists,  and  swearing  hor 
ribly.  Some  hundred  yards  away  the  mule  paused  and  began  blow 
ing  and  snuffing  in  the  alkali  as  though  in  search  of  feed.  Then, 


274  McTeague 

for  no  reason,  he  shied  again,  and  started  off  on  a  jog  trot  toward 
the  east. 

"We've  got  to  follow  him/'  exclaimed  Marcus  as  McTeague 
came  up.  "There's  no  water  within  seventy  miles  of  here." 

Then  began  an  interminable  pursuit.  Mile  after  mile,  under  the 
terrible  heat  of  the  desert  sun,  the  two  men  followed  the  mule, 
racked  with  a  thirst  that  grew  fiercer  every  hour.  A  dozen  times 
they  could  almost  touch  the  canteen  of  water,  and  as  often  the  dis 
traught  animal  shied  away  and  fled  before  them.  At  length  Marcus 
cried : 

"It's  no  use,  we  can't  catch  him,  and  we're  killing  ourselves  with 
thirst.  We  got  to  take  our  chances."  He  drew  his  revolver  from 
its  holster,  cocked  it,  and  crept  forward. 

"Steady,  now,"  said  McTeague;  "it  won't  do  to  shoot  through 
the  canteen." 

Within  twenty  yards  Marcus  paused,  made  a  rest  of  his  left  fore 
arm  and  fired. 

"You  got  him,"  cried  McTeague.  "No,  he's  up  again.  Shoot  him 
again.  He's  going  to  bolt." 

Marcus  ran  on,  firing  as  he  ran.  The  mule,  one  foreleg  trailing, 
scrambled  along,  squealing  and  snorting.  ,  Marcus  fired  his  last 
shot.  The  mule  pitched  forward  upon  his  head,  then,  rolling  side- 
wise,  fell  upon  the  canteen,  bursting  it  open  and  spilling  its  entire 
contents  into  the  sand. 

Marcus  and  McTeague  ran  up,  and  Marcus  snatched  the  bat 
tered  canteen  from  under  the  reeking,  bloody  hide.  There  was  no 
water  left.  Marcus  flung  the  canteen  from  him  and  stood  up,  facing 
McTeague.  There  was  a  pause. 

"We're  dead  men,"  said  Marcus. 

McTeague  looked  from  him  out  over  the  desert.  Chaotic  deso 
lation  stretched  from  them  on  either  hand,  flaming  and  glaring  with 
the  afternoon  heat.  There  was  the  brazen  sky  and  the  leagues  upon 
leagues  of  alkali,  leper  white.  There  was  nothing  more.  They 
were  in  the  heart  of  Death  Valley. 

"Not  a  drop  of  water,"  muttered  McTeague;  "not  a  drop  of 
water." 

"We  can  drink  the  mule's  blood,"  said  Marcus.  "It's  been  done 
before.  But — but — "  he  looked  down  at  the  quivering,  gory  body — 
"but  I  ain't  thirsty  enough  for  that  yet." 

"Where's  the  nearest  water?" 

"Well,  it's  about  a  hundred  miles  or  more  back  of  us  in  the 


McTeague  275 

Panamint  hills,"  returned  Marcus  doggedly.  "We'd  be  crazy  long 
before  we  reached  it.  I  tell  you,  we're  done  for,  by  damn,  we're 
done  for.  We  ain't  ever  going  to  get  outa  here." 

"Done  for  ?"  murmured  the  other,  looking  about  stupidly.  "Done 
for,  that's  the  word.  Done  for?  Yes,  I  guess  we're  done  for." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  now?"  exclaimed  Marcus  sharply, 
after  a  while. 

"Well,  let's — let's  be  moving  along — somewhere." 

"Where,  I'd  like  to  know?    What's  the  good  of  moving  on." 

"What's  the  good  of  stopping  here?" 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Lord,  it's  hot,"  said  the  dentist  finally,  wiping  his  forehead  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  Marcus  ground  his  teeth. 

"Done  for,"  he  muttered ;  "done  for." 

"I  never  was  so  thirsty,"  continued  McTeague.  "I'm  that  dry 
I  can  hear  my  tongue  rubbing  against  the  roof  of  my  mouth." 

"Well,  we  can't  stop  here,"  said  Marcus  finally;  "we  got  to 
go  somewhere.  We'll  try  and  get  back,  but  it  ain't  no  manner 
of  use.  Anything  we  want  to  take  along  with  us  from  the  mule? 
We  can—" 

Suddenly  he  paused.  In  an  instant  the  eyes  of  the  two  doomed 
men  had  met  as  the  same  thought  simultaneously  rose  in  their  minds. 
The  canvas  sack  with  its  five  thousand  dollars  was  still  tied  to  the 
horn  of  the  saddle. 

.Marcus  had  emptied  his  revolver  at  the  mule,  and  though  he  still 
wore  his  cartridge  belt,  he  was  for  the  moment  as  unarmed  as 
McTeague. 

"I  guess,"  began  McTeague  coming  forward  a  step,  "I  guess, 
even  if  we  are  done  for,  I'll  take — some  of  my  truck  along." 

"Hold  on,"  exclaimed  Marcus,  with  rising  aggressiveness. 
"Let's  talk  about  that.  I  ain't  so  sure  about  who  that — who  that 
money  belongs  to." 

"Well,  I  am,  you  see,"  growled  the  dentist. 

The  old  enmity  between  the  two  men,  their  ancient  hate,  was 
flaming  up  again. 

"Don't  try  an'  load  that  gun  either,"  cried  McTeague,  fixing 
Marcus  with  his  little  eyes. 

"Then  don't  lay  your  finger  on  that  sack,"  shouted  the  other. 
"You're  my  prisoner,  do  you  understand?  You'll  do  as  I  say." 
Marcus  had  drawn  the  handcuffs  from  his  pocket,  and  stood  ready 
with  his  revolver  held  as  a  club.  "You  soldiered  me  out  of  that 


276  McTeague 

money  once,  and  played  me  for  a  sucker,  an'  it's  my  turn  now 
Don't  you  lay  your  finger  on  that  sack." 

Marcus  barred  McTeague's  way,  white  with  passion.  McTeague 
did  not  answer.  His  eyes  drew  to  two  fine,  twinkling  points,  and 
and  his  enormous  hands  knotted  themselves  into  fists,  hard  as 
wooden  mallets.  He  moved  a  step  nearer  to  Marcus,  then  another. 
Suddenly  the  men  grappled,  and  in  another  instant  were  rolling 
and  struggling  upon  the  hot  white  ground.  McTeague  thrust 
Marcus  backward  until  he  tripped  and  fell  over  the  body  of  the  dead 
mule.  The  little  bird  cage  broke  from  the  saddle  with  the  violence 
of  their  fall,  and  rolled  out  upon  the  ground,  the  flour-bags  slip 
ping  from  it.  McTeague  tore  the  revolver  from  Marcus's  grip 
and  struck  out  with  it  blindly.  Clouds  of  alkali  dust,  fine  and  pun- 
/gent,  enveloped  the  two  fighting  men,  all  but  strangling  them. 

McTeague  did  not  know  how  he  killed  his  enemy,  but  all  at 
once  Marcus  grew  still  beneath  his  blows.  Then  there  was  a 
sudden  last  return  of  energy.  McTeague's  right  wrist  was  caught, 
something  clicked  upon  it,  then  the  struggling  body  fell  limp  and 
motionless  with  a  long  breath. 

.  As  McTeague  rose  to  his  feet,  he  felt  a  pull  at  his  right  wrist ; 
j    something  held  it  fast.     Looking  down,  he  saw  that   Marcus  in 
\  that  last  struggle  had  found  strength  to  handcuff  their  wrists  to 
gether.     Marcus  was  dead  now ;  McTeague  was  locked  to  the  body. 
\    I  All  about  him,  vast,  interminable,  stretehed  the  measureless  leagues 
P      of  Death  Valley. 

McTeague  remained  stupidly  looking  around  him,  now  at  the 
distant  horizon,  now  at  the  ground,  now  at  the  half-dead  canary 
chittering  feebly  in  its  little  gilt  prison. 


THE     END 


A  Man's  Woman 


BY 

FRANK  NORRIS 


Copyright,  1899,  1900,  by 
Doubleday  &  McClure  Company 


DEDICATED  TO 

Gilbert  3. 


The  following  novel  was  completed  March  22, 1899,  and  sent  to  the  printer 
in  October  of  the  same  year.  After  the  plates  had  been  made  notice  was 
received  that  a  play  called  "A  Man's  Woman"  had  been  written  by  Anne 
Crawford  Flexner,  and  that  this  title  had  been  copyrighted. 

As  it  was  impossible  to  change  the  name  of  the  novel  at  the  time  this 
notice  was  received,  it  has  been  published  under  its  original  title. 

F.  N. 

NEW  YORK 


A    MAN'S    WOMAN 


AT  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  everybody  in  the  tent  was  still 
asleep,  exhausted  by  the  terrible  march  of  the  previous  day.  The 
hurnmocky  ice  and  pressure-ridges  that  Bennett  had  foreseen  had 
at  last  been  met  with,  and,  though  camp  had  been  broken  at  six 
o'clock  and  though  men  and  dogs  had  hauled  and  tugged  and 
wrestled  with  the  heavy  sledges  until  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
only  a  mile  and  a  half  had  been  covered.  But  though  the  progress 
was  slow,  it  was  yet  progress.  It  was  not  the  harrowing,  heart 
breaking  immobility  of  those  long  months  aboard  the  "Freja." 
Every  yard  to  the  southward,  though  won  at  the  expense  of  a  battle 
with  the  ice,  brought  them  nearer  to  Wrangel  Island  and  ultimate 
safety. 

Then,  too,  at  supper  time  the  unexpected  had  happened.  Ben 
nett,  moved  no  doubt  by  their  weakened  condition,  had  dealt  out 
extra  rations  to  each  man ;  one  and  two-thirds  ounces  of  butter  and 
six  and  two-thirds  ounces  of  aleuronate  bread — a  veritable  luxury 
after  the  unvarying  diet  of  pemmican,  lime  juice,  and  dried  potatoes 
of  the  past  fortnight.  The  men  had  got  into  their  sleeping-bags 
early,  and  until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  had  slept  profoundly, 
inert,  stupefied,  almost  without  movement.  But  a  few  minutes 
after  four  o'clock  Bennett  awoke.  He  was  usually  up  about  half 
an  hour  before  the  others.  On  the  day  before  he  had  been  able  to 
get  a  meridian  altitude  of  the  sun,  and  was  anxious  to  complete  his 
calculations  as  to  the  expedition's  position  on  the  chart  that  he  had 
begun  in  the  evening. 

He  pushed  back  the  flap  of  the  sleeping-bag  and  rose  to  his  full 
height,  passing  his  hands  over  his  face,  rubbing  the  sleep  from  his 
eyes.  He  was  an  enormous  man,  standing  six  feet  two  inches  in 
his  reindeer  footnips  and  having  the  look  more  of  a  prize-fighter 
than  of  a  scientist.  Even  making  allowances  for  its  coating  of  dirt 

(281) 


282  A  Man's  Woman 

and  its  harsh,  black  stubble  of  half  a  week's  growth,  the  face  was 
not  pleasant.  Bennett  was  an  ugly  man.  His  lower  jaw  was  huge 
almost  to  deformity,  like  that  of  the  bulldog,  the  chin  salient,  the 
mouth  close-gripped,  with  great  lips,  indomitable,  brutal.  The  fore 
head  was  contracted  and  small,,  the  forehead  of  men  of  single  ideas, 
and  the  eyes,  too,  were  small  and  twinkling,  one  of  them  marred  by 
a  sharply  defined  cast. 

But  as  Bennett  was  fumbling  in  the  tin  box  that  was  lashed  upon 
the  number  four  sledge,  looking  for  his  notebook  wherein  he  had 
begun  his  calculations  for  latitude,  he  was  surprised  to  find  a  copy 
of  the  record  he  had  left  in  the  instrument  box  under  the  cairn  at 
Cape  Kamenni  at  the  beginning  of  his  southerly  march.  He  had 
supposed  that  this  copy  had  been  mislaid,  and  was  not  a  little  relieved 
to  come  across  it  now.  He  read  it  through  hastily,  his  mind  re 
viewing  again  the  incidents  of  the  last  few  months.  Certain  ex 
tracts  of  this  record  ran  as  follows : 

"Arctic  steamer  'Freja,'  on  ice  off  Cape  Kamenni,  New  Siberian  Islands, 
76  deg.  10  min.  north  latitude,  150  deg.  40  min.  east  longitude,  July  12,  1891. 
.  •'.  .  We  accordingly  froze  the  ship  in  on  the  last  day  of  September,  1890, 
and  during  the  following  winter  drifted  with  the  pack  in  a  northwesterly 
direction.  .  .  .  On  Friday,  July  10,  1891,  being  in  latitude  76  deg.  10 
min.  north;  longitude  150  deg.  10  min.  east,  the  'Freja'  was  caught  in  a 
severe  nip  between  two  floes  and  was  crushed,  sinking  in  about  two  hours. 
We  abandoned  her,  saving  200  days'  provisions  and  all  necessary  clothing, 
instruments,  etc.  .  .  . 

"I  shall  now  attempt  a  southerly  march  over  the  ice  to  Kolyuchin  Bay  by 
way  of  Wrangel  Island,  where  provisions  have  been  cached,  hoping  to  fall 
in  with  the  relief  ships  or  steam  whalers  on  the  way.  Our  party  consists  of 
the  following  twelve  persons:  .  .  .  All  well  with  the  exception  of  Mr. 
Ferriss,  the  chief  engineer,  whose  left  hand  has  been  badly  frostbitten.  No 
scurvy  in  the  party  as  yet.  We  have  eighteen  Ostiak  dogs  with  us  in  prime 
condition,  and  expect  to  drag  our  ship's  boat  upon  sledges. 

"WARD  BENNETT, 
"Commander  'Freja'  Arctic  Exploring  Expedition." 

Bennett  returned  this  copy  of  the  record  to  its  place  in  the  box, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  centre  of  the  tent,  his  head  bent  to 
avoid  the  ridge-pole,  looking  thoughtfully  upon  the  ground. 

Well,  so  far  all  had  gone  right — no  scurvy,  provisions  in  plenty. 
The  dogs  were  in  good  condition,  his  men  cheerful,  trusting  in  him 
as  in  a  god,  and  surely  no  leader  could  wish  for  a  better  lieutenant 


A  Man's  Woman  283 

and  comrade  than  Richard  Ferriss — but  this  hummocky  ice — these 
pressure-ridges  which  the  expedition  had  met  the  day  before.  In 
stead  of  turning  at  once  to  his  ciphering  Bennett  drew  the  hood  of 
the  wolfskin  coat  over  his  head,  buttoned  a  red  flannel  mask  across 
his  face,  and,  raising  the  flap  of  the  tent,  stepped  outside. 

Under  the  lee  of  the  tent  the  dogs  were  sleeping,  moveless 
bundles  of  fur,  black  and  white,  perceptibly  steaming.  The  three 
great  McClintock  sledges,  weighted  down  with  the  "Freja's"  boats 
and  with  the  expedition's  impedimenta,  lay  where  they  had  been 
halted  the  evening  before. 

In  the  sky  directly  in  front  of  Bennett  as  he  issued  from  the 
tent  three  moons,  hooped  in  a  vast  circle  of  nebulous  light,  shone 
roseate  through  a  fine  mist,  while  in  the  western  heavens  streamers 
of  green,  orange,  and  vermilion  light,  immeasurably  vast,  were 
shooting  noiselessly  from  horizon  to  zenith. 

But  Bennett  had  more  on  his  mind  that  morning  than  mock- 
moons  and  auroras.  To  the  south  and  east,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  tent,  the  pressure  of  the  floes  had  thrown  up  an 
enormous  ridge  of  shattered  ice-cakes,  a  mound,  a  long  hill  of  blue- 
green  slabs  and  blocks  huddling  together  at  every  conceivable  angle. 
It  was  nearly  twenty  feet  in  height,  quite  the  highest  point  that 
Bennett  could  discover.  Scrambling  and  climbing  over  countless 
other  ridges  that  intervened,  he  made  his  way  to  it,  ascended  it 
almost  on  hands  and  knees,  and,  standing  upon  its  highest  point, 
looked  long  and  carefully  to  the  southward. 

A  wilderness  beyond  all  thought,  words,  or  imagination  desolate 
stretched  out  before  him  there  forever  and  forever — ice,  ice,  ice, 
fields  and  floes  of  ice,  laying  themselves  out  under  that  gloomy  sky, 
league  after  league,  endless,  sombre,  infinitely  vast,  infinitely 
formidable.  But  now  it  was  no  longer  the  smooth  ice  over  which  the 
expedition  had  for  so  long  been  traveling.  In  every  direction,  in 
tersecting  one  another  at  ten  thousand  points,  crossing  and  recross- 
ing,  weaving  a  gigantic,  bewildering  network  of  gashed,  jagged, 
splintered  ice-blocks,  ran  the  pressure-ridges  and  hummocks.  In 
places  a  score  or  more  of  these  ridges  had  been  wedged  together  to 
form  one  huge  field  of  broken  slabs  of  ice  miles  in  width,  miles  in 
length.  From  horizon  to  horizon  there  was  no  level  place,  no  open 
water,  no  pathway.  The  view  to  the  southward  resembled  a  tem 
pest-tossed  ocean  suddenly  frozen. 

One  of  these  ridges  Bennett  had  just  climbed,  and  upon  it  he 
now  stood.  Even  for  him,  unincumbered,  carrying  no  weight,  the 


284  A  Man's  Woman 

climb  had  been  difficult ;  more  than  once  he  had  dipped  and  fallen. 
At  times  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  forward  almost  on  his  hands 
and  knees.  And  yet  it  was  across  that  jungle  of  ice,  that  unspeak 
able  tangle  of  blue-green  slabs  and  cakes  and  blocks,  that  the  ex 
pedition  must  now  advance,  dragging  its  boats,  its  sledges,  its  pro 
visions,  instruments,  and  baggage. 

Bennett  stood  looking.  Before  him  lay  his  task.  There  under 
his  eyes  was  the  Enemy.  Face  to  face  with  him  was  the  titanic 
primal  strength  of  a  chaotic  world,  the  stupendous  still  force 
of  a  merciless  nature,  waiting  calmly,  waiting  silently  to  close 
upon  and  crush  him.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  watching.  Then 
the  great  brutal  jaw  grew  more  salient  than  ever,  the  teeth  set 
and  clinched  behind  the  close-gripped  lips,  the  cast  in  the  small 
twinkling  eyes  grew  suddenly  more  pronounced.  One  huge  fist 
raised,  and  the  arm  slowly  extended  forward  like  the  resistless 
moving  of  a  piston.  Then  when  his  arm  was  at  its  full  reach  Ben 
nett  spoke  as  though  in  answer  to  the  voiceless,  terrible  challenge 
measured. 

"But  I'll  break  you,  by  God !  believe  me,  I  will." 

After  a  while  he  returned  to  the  tent,  awoke  the  cook,  and  while 
breakfast  was  being  prepared  completed  his  calculations  for  lati 
tude,  wrote  up  his  ice-journal,  and  noted  down  the  temperature  and 
the  direction  and  velocity  of  the  wind.  As  he  was  finishing,  Richard 
Ferriss,  who  was  the  chief  engineer  and  second  in  command,  awoke 
and  immediately  asked  the  latitude. 

"Seventy-four-fifteen,"   answered   Bennett   without   looking  up. 

"Seventy-four-fifteen,"  repeated  Ferriss,  nodding  his  head;  "we 
didn't  make  much  distance  yesterday." 

"I  hope  we  can  make  as  much  to-day,"  returned  Bennett  grimly 
as  he  put  away  his  observation  journal  and  notebooks. 

"How's  the  ice  to  the  south'ard  ?" 

"Bad ;  wake  the  men." 

After  breakfast  and  while  the  McClintocks  were  being  loaded 
Bennett  sent  Ferriss  on  ahead  to  choose  a  road  through  and  over 
the  ridges.  It  was  dreadful  work.  For  two  hours  Ferriss  wan 
dered  about  amid  the  broken  ice  all  but  hopelessly  bewildered.  But 
at  length,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  he  beheld  a  fairly  open  stretch 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length  lying  out  to  the  southwest  and 
not  too  far  out  of  the  expedition's  line  of  march.  Some  dozen 
ridges  would  have  to  be  crossed  before  this  level  was  reached;  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  so  Ferriss  planted  his  flags  where  the 


A  Man's  Woman  285 

heaps  of  ice-blocks  seemed  least  impracticable  and  returned  toward 
the  camp.  It  had  already  been  broken,  and  on  his  way  he  met  the 
entire  expedition  involved  in  the  intricacies  of  the  first  rough  ice. 

All  of  the  eighteen  dogs  had  been  harnessed  to  the  number  two 
sledge,  that  carried  the  whaleboat  and  the  major  part  of  the  pro 
visions,  and  every  man  of  the  party,  Bennett  included,  was  strain 
ing  at  the  haul-ropes  with  the  dogs.  Foot  by  foot  the  sledge  came 
over  the  ridge,  grinding  and  lurching  among  the  ice-blocks;  then, 
partly  by  guiding,  partly  by  lifting,  it  was  piloted  down  the  slope, 
only  in  the  end  to  escape  from  all  control  and  come  crashing  down 
ward  among  the  dogs,  jolting  one  of  the  medicine  chests  from  its 
lashings  and  butting  its  nose  heavily  against  the  foot  of  the  next 
hummock  immediately  beyond.  But  the  men  scrambled  to  their 
places  again,  the  medicine  chest  was  replaced,  and  Muck  Tu,  the 
Eskimo  dog-master,  whipped  forward  his  dogs.  Ferriss,  too,  laid 
hold.  The  next  hummock  was  surmounted,  the  dogs  panting,  and 
the  men,  even  in  that  icy  air,  reeking  with  perspiration.  Then  sud 
denly  and  without  the  least  warning  Bennett  and  McPherson,  who 
were  in  the  lead,  broke  through  some  young  ice  into  water  up  to 
their  breasts,  Muck  Tu  and  one  of  the  dogs  breaking  through  im 
mediately  afterward.  The  men  were  pulled  out,  or,  of  their  own 
efforts,  climbed  up  on  the  ice  again.  But  in  an  instant  their  clothes 
were  frozen  to  rattling  armor. 

"Bear  off  to  the  eastward,  here!"  commanded  Bennett,  shaking 
the  icy,  stinging  water  from  his  sleeves.  "Everybody  on  the  ropes 
now !" 

Another  pressure-ridge  was  surmounted,  then  a  third,  and  by 
an  hour  after  the  start  they  had  arrived  at  the  first  one  of  Ferriss's 
flags.  Here  the  number  two  sledge  was  left,  and  the  entire  ex 
pedition,  dogs  and  men,  returned  to  camp  to  bring  up  the  number 
one  McClintock  loaded  with  the  "Freja's"  cutter  and  with  the  sleep 
ing-bags,  instruments,  and  tent.  This  sledge  was  successfully 
dragged  over  the  first  two  hummocks,  but  as  it  was  being  hauled  up 
the  third  its  left-handed  runner  suddenly  buckled  and  turned  under  it 
with  a  loud  snap.  There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  remove 
the  entire  load  and  to  set  Hawes,  the  carpenter,  to  work  upon  its 
repair. 

"Up  your  other  sledge !"  ordered  Bennett. 

Once  more  the  expedition  returned  to  the  morning's  camping- 
place,  and,  harnessing  itself  to  the  third  McClintock,  struggled  for 
ward  with  it  for  an  hour  and  a  half  until  it  was  up  with  the  first 


286  A  Man's  Woman 

sledge  and  Ferriss's  flag.  Fortunately  the  two  dog-sleds,  four  and 
five,  were  light,  and  Bennett,  dividing  his  forces,  brought  them  up 
in  a  single  haul.  But  Hawes  called  out  that  the  broken  sledge  was 
now  repaired.  The  men  turned  to  at  once,  reloaded  it,  and  hauled 
it  onward,  so  that  by  noon  every  sledge  had  been  moved  forward 
quite  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

But  now,  for  the  moment,  the  men,  after  going  over  the  same 
ground  seven  times,  were  used  up,  and  Muck  Tu  could  no  longer 
whip  the  dogs  to  their  work.  Bennett  called  a  halt.  Hot  tea  was 
made,  and  pemmican  and  hardtack  served  out. 

"We'll  have  easier  hauling  this  afternoon,  men,"  said  Bennett; 
"this  next  ridge  is  the  worst  of  the  lot;  beyond  that  Mr.  Ferriss 
says  we've  got  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  level  floes." 

On  again  at  one  o'clock ;  but  the  hummock  of  which  Bennett 
had  spoken  proved  absolutely  impassable  for  the  loaded  sledges, 
It  was  all  one  that  the  men  lay  to  the  ropes  like  draught-horses,  and 
that  Muck  Tu  flogged  the  dogs  till  the  goad  broke  in  his  hands.  The 
men  lost  their  footing  upon  the  slippery  ice  and  fell  to  their  knees ; 
the  dogs  lay  down  in  the  traces  groaning  and  whining.  The  sledge 
would  not  move. 

"Unload !"  commanded  Bennett. 

The  lashings  were  taken  off,  and  the  loads,  including  the  great, 
cumbersome  whaleboat  itself,  carried  over  the  hummock  by  hand. 
Then  the  sledge  itself  was  hauled  over  and  reloaded  upon  the  other 
side.  Thus  the  whole  five  sledges. 

The  work  was  bitter  hard ;  the  knots  of  the  lashings  were  frozen 
tight  and  coated  with  ice;  the  cases  of  provisions,  the  medicine 
chests,  the  canvas  bundle  of  sails,  boat-covers,  and  tents  unwieldy 
and  of  enormous  weight;  the  footing  on  the  slippery,  uneven  ice 
precarious,  and  more  than  once  a  man,  staggering  under  his  load, 
broke  through  the  crust  into  water  so  cold  that  the  sensation  was 
like  that  of  burning. 

But  at  last  everything  was  over,  the  sledges  reloaded,  and  the 
forward  movement  resumed.  Only  one  low  hummock  now  inter 
vened  between  them  and  the  longed-for  level  floe. 

However,  as  they  were  about  to  start  forward  again  a  lamentable 
gigantic  sound  began  vibrating  in  their  ears,  a  rumbling,  groaning 
note  rising  by  quick  degrees  to  a  strident  shriek.  Other  sounds, 
hollow  and  shrill — treble  mingling  with  diapason — joined  in  the 
first.  The  noise  came  from  just  beyond  the  pressure-mound  at  the 
foot  of  which  the  party  had  halted. 


A  Man's  Woman  287 

"Forward!"  shouted  Bennett;  "hurry  there,  men!" 

Desperately  eager,  the  men  bent  panting  to  their  work.  The 
sledge  bearing  the  whaleboat  topped  the  hummock. 

"Now,  then,  over  with  her!"  cried  Ferriss. 

But  it  was  too  late.  As  they  stood  looking  down  upon  it  for 
an  instant,  the  level  floe,  their  one  sustaining  hope  during  all  the 
day,  suddenly  cracked  from  side  to  side  with  the  noise  of  ordnance. 
Then  the  groaning  and  shrieking  recommenced.  The  crack  imme 
diately  closed  up,  the  pressure  on  the  sides  of  the  floe  began  again, 
and  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  ice,  domes  and  mounds  abruptly 
reared  themselves.  As  the  pressure  increased  these  domes  and 
mounds  cracked  and  burst  into  countless  blocks  and  slabs.  Ridge 
after  ridge  was  formed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Thundering  like 
a  cannonade  of  siege  guns,  the  whole  floe  burst  up,  jagged,  splin 
tered,  hummocky.  In  less  than  three  minutes,  and  while  the  "Fre- 
ja's"  men  stood  watching,  the  level  stretch  toward  which  since 
morning  they  had  struggled  with  incalculable  toil  was  ground  up 
into  a  vast  mass  of  confused  and  pathless  rubble. 

"Oh,  this  will  never  do,"  muttered  Ferriss,  disheartened. 

"Come  on,  men !"  exclaimed  Bennett.  "Mr.  Ferriss,  go  for 
ward,  and  choose  a  road  for  us." 

The  labor  of  the  morning  was  recommenced.  With  infinite  pa 
tience,  infinite  hardship,  the  sledges  one  by  one  were  advanced.  So 
heavy  were  the  three  larger  McClintocks  that  only  one  could  be 
handled  at  a  time,  and  that  one  taxed  the  combined  efforts  of  men 
and  dogs  to  the  uttermost.  The  same  ground  had  to  be  covered 
seven  times.  For  every  yard  gained  seven  had  to  be  traveled.  It 
was  not  a  march,  it  was  a  battle ;  a  battle  without  rest  and  without 
end  and  without  mercy;  a  battle  with  an  Enemy  whose  power  was 
beyond  all  estimate  and  whose  movements  were  not  reducible  to 
any  known  law.  A  certain  course  would  be  mapped,  certain  plans 
formed,  a  certain  objective  determined,  and  before  the  course  could 
be  finished,  the  plans  executed,  or  the  objective  point  attained  the 
perverse,  inexplicable  movement  of  the  ice  baffled  their  determina 
tion  and  set  at  naught  their  best  ingenuity. 

At  four  o'clock  it  began  to  snow.  Since  the  middle  of  the  fore 
noon  the  horizon  had  been  obscured  by  clouds  and  mist  so  that  no 
observation  for  position  could  be  taken.  Steadily  the  clouds  had 
advanced,  and  by  four  o'clock  the  expedition  found  itself  enveloped 
by  wind  and  driving  snow.  The  flags  could  no  longer  be  distin 
guished;  thin  and  treacherous  ice  was  concealed  under  drifts;  the 


288  A  Man's  Woman 

dogs  floundered  helplessly ;  the  men  could  scarcely  open  their  eyes 
against  the  wind  and  fine,  powder-like  snow,  and  at  times  when 
they  came  to  drag  forward  the  last  sledge  they  found  it  so  nearly 
buried  in  the  snow  that  it  must  be  dug  out  before  it  could!  be 
moved. 

Toward  half-past  five  the  odometer  on  one  of  the  dog-sleds 
registered  a  distance  of  three-quarters  of  a  mile  made  since  morn 
ing.  Bennett  called  a  halt,  and  camp  was  pitched  in  the  lee  of  one 
of  the  larger  hummocks.  The  alcohol  cooker  was  set  going,  and 
supper  was  had  under  the  tent,  the  men  eating  as  they  lay  in  their 
sleeping-bags.  But  even  while  eating  they  fell  asleep,  drooping 
lower  and  lower,  finally  collapsing  upon  the  canvas  floor  of  the 
tent,  the  food  still  in  their  mouths. 

Yet,  for  all  that,  the  night  was  miserable.  Even  after  that  day 
of  superhuman  struggle  they  were  not  to  be  allowed  a  few  hours 
of  unbroken  rest.  By  midnight  the  wind  had  veered  to  the  east  and 
was  blowing  a  gale.  An  hour  later  the  tent  came  down.  Ex 
hausted  as  they  were,  they  must  turn  out  and  wrestle  with  that  slat 
ting,  ice-sheathed  canvas,  and  it  was  not  until  half  an  hour  later 
that  everything  was  fast  again. 

Once  more  they  crawled  into  the  sleeping-bags,  but  soon  the 
heat  from  their  bodies  melted  the  ice  upon  their  clothes,  and  pools 
of  water  formed  under  each  man,  wetting  him  to  the  skin.  Sleep 
was  impossible.  It  grew  colder  and  colder  as  the  night  advanced, 
and  the  gale  increased.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  cen 
tigrade  thermometer  was  at  eighteen  degrees  below.  The  cooker 
was  lighted  again,  and  until  six  o'clock  the  party  huddled  wretch 
edly  about  it,  dozing  and  waking,  shivering  continually. 

Breakfast  at  half-past  six  o'clock;  under  way  again  an  hour 
later.  There  was  no  change  in  the  nature  of  the  ice.  Ridge  suc 
ceeded  ridge,  hummock  followed  upon  hummock.  The  wind  was 
going  down,  but  the  snow  still  fell  as  fine  and  bewildering  as  ever. 
The  cold  was  intense.  Dennison,  the  doctor  and  naturalist  of  the 
expedition,  having  slipped  his  mitten,  had  his  hand  frostbitten  be 
fore  he  could  recover  it.  Two  of  the  dogs,  Big  Joe  and  Stryelka, 
were  noticeably  giving  out. 

But  Bennett,  his  huge  jaws  clinched,  his  small,  distorted  eyes 
twinkling  viciously  through  the  •  apertures  of  the  wind-mask,  his 
harsh,  black  eyebrows  lowering  under  the  narrow,  contracted  fore 
head,  drove  the  expedition  to  its  work  relentlessly.  Not  Muck  Tu, 
the  dog-master,  had  his  Ostiaks  more  completely  under  his  control 


A  Man's  Woman  289 

than  he  his  men.  He  himself  did  the  work  of  three.  On  that  vast 
frame  of  bone  and  muscle,  fatigue  seemed  to  leave  no  trace.  Upon 
that  inexorable  bestial  determination  difficulties  beyond  belief  left 
no  mark.  Not  one  of  the  twelve  men  under  his  command  fighting 
the  stubborn  ice  with  tooth  and  nail  who  was  not  galvanized  with  his 
tremendous  energy.  It  was  as  though  a  spur  were  in  their  flanks, 
a  lash  upon  their  backs.  Their  minds,  their  wills,  their  efforts,  their 
physical  strength  to  the  last  ounce  and  pennyweight  belonged  indis- 
solubly  to  him.  For  the  time  being  they  were  his  slaves,  his  serfs, 
his  beasts  of  burden,  his  draught  animals,  no  better  than  the  dogs 
straining  in  the  traces  beside  them.  Forward  they  must  and 
would  go  until  they  dropped  in  the  harness  or  he  gave  the  word 
to  pause. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Bennett  halted.  Two  miles 
had  been  made  since  the  last  camp,  and  now  human  endurance  could 
go  no  further.  Sometimes  when  the  men  fell  they  were  unable  to 
get  up.  It  was  evident  there  was  no  more  in  them  that  day. 

In  his  ice- journal  for  that  date  Bennett  wrote : 

".  .  .  Two  miles  covered  by  4  P.M.  Our  course  continued  to  be  south, 
20  degrees  west  (magnetic).  The  ice  still  hummocky.  At  this  rate  we 
shall  be  on  half  rations  long  before  we  reach  Wrangel  Island.  No  observa 
tion  possible  since  day  before  yesterday,  on  account  of  snow  and  clouds. 
Stryelka,  one  of  our  best  dogs,  gave  out  to-day.  Shot  him  and  fed  him  to 
the  others.  Our  advance  to  the  southwest  is  slow  but  sure,  and  every  day 
brings  nearer  our  objective.  Temperature  at  6  P.M.,  6.8  degrees  Fahr, 
(minus  14  degrees  C.).  Wind,  east;  force,  2." 

The  next  morning  was  clear  for  two  hours  after  breakfast,  and 
when  Ferriss  returned  from  his  task  of  path-finding  he  reported 
to  Bennett  that  he  had  seen  a  great  many  water-blinks  off  to  the 
southwest. 

"The  wind  of  yesterday  has  broken  the  ice  up,"  observed  Ben 
nett  ;  "we  shall  have  hard  work  to-day." 

A  little  after  midday,  at  a  time  when  they  had  wrested  some 
thousand  yards  to  the  southward  from  the  grip  of  the  ice,  the  ex 
pedition  came  to  the  first  lane  of  open  water,  about  three  hundred 
hundred  feet  in  width.  Bennett  halted  the  sledges  and  at  once  set 
about  constructing  a  bridge  of  floating  cakes  of  ice.  But  the  work 
of  keeping  these  ice-blocks  in  place  long  enough  for  the  transfer  of 
even  a  single  sledge  seemed  at  times  to  be  beyond  their  most  stren 
uous  endeavor.  The  first  sledge  with  the  cutter  crossed  in  safety. 

M— III— NORRIS 


290  A  Man's  Woman 

Then  came  the  turn  of  number  two,  loaded  with  the  provisions 
and  whaleboat.  It  was  two-thirds  of  the  way  across  when  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  floe  abruptly  shifted  its  position,  and  thirty  feet 
of  open  water  suddenly  widened  out  directly  in  front  of  the  line 
of  progress. 

"Cut  loose !"  demanded  Bennett  upon  the  instant.  The  ice-block 
upon  which  they  were  gathered  was  set  free  in  the  current.  The 
situation  was  one  of  the  greatest  peril.  The  entire  expedition,  men 
and  dogs  together,  with  their  most  important  sledge,  was  adrift. 
But  the  oars  and  mast  and  the  pole  of  the  tent  were  had  from  the 
whaleboat,  and  little  by  little  they  ferried  themselves  across.  The 
gap  was  bridged  again  and  the  dog-sleds  transferred. 

But  now  occurred  the  first  real  disaster  since  the  destruction  of 
the  ship.  Half-way  across  the  crazy  pontoon  bridge  of  ice,  the- 
dogs,  harnessed  to  one  of  the  small  sleds,  became  suddenly  terrified. 
Before  any  one  could  interfere  they  had  bolted  from  Muck  Tu's 
control  in  a  wild  break  for  the  further  side  of  the  ice.  The  sled 
was  overturned ;  pell-mell  the  dogs  threw  themselves  into  the  water ; 
the  sled  sank,  the  load-lashing  parted,  and  two  medicine  chests,  the 
bag  of  sewing  materials — of  priceless  worth — a  coil  of  wire  ropes, 
and  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  pemmican  were  lost  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Without  comment  Bennett  at  once  addressed  himself  to  making 
the  best  of  the  business.  The  dogs  were  hauled  upon  the  ice;  the 
few  loads  that  yet  remained  upon  the  sled  were  transferred  to 
another;  that  sled  was  abandoned,  and  once  more  the  expedition 
began  its  never-ending  battle  to  the  southward. 

The  lanes  of  open  water,  as  foreshadowed  by  the  water-blinks 
that  Ferriss  had  noted  in  the  morning,  were  frequent;  alternating 
steadily  with  hummocks  and  pressure-ridges.  But  the  perversity  of 
the  ice  was  all  but  heart-breaking.  At  every  hour  the  lanes  opened 
and  closed.  At  one  time  in  the  afternoon  they  had  arrived  upon 
the  edge  of  a  lane  wide  enough  to  justify  them  in  taking  to  their 
boats.  The  sledges  were  unloaded,  and  stowed  upon  the  boats 
themselves,  and  oars  and  sails  made  ready.  Then  as  Bennett  was 
about  to  launch  the  lane  suddenly  closed  up.  What  had  been  water 
became  a  level  floe,  and  again  the. process  of  unloading  and  reload 
ing  had  to  be  undertaken. 

That  evening  Big  Joe  and  two  other  dogs,  Gavriga  and  Patsy, 
were  shot  because  of  their  uselessness  in  the  traces.  Their  bodies 
were  cut  up  to  feed  their  mates. 


A  Man's  Woman  291 

"I  can  spare  the  dogs,"  wrote  Bennett  in  his  journal  for  that  day — a 
Sunday — "but  McPherson,  one  of  the  best  men  of  the  command,  gives  me 
some  uneasiness.  His  frozen  footnips  have  chafed  sores  in  his  ankle.  One 
of  these  has  ulcerated,  and  the  doctor  tells  me  is  in  a  serious  condition.  His 
pain  is  so  great  that  he  can  no  longer  haul  with  the  others.  Shall  relieve 
him  from  work  during  the  morrow's  march.  Less  than  a  mile  covered  to 
day.  Meridian  observation  for  latitude  impossible  on  account  of  fog.  Divine 
services  at  5:30  P.M." 

A  week  passed,  then  another.  There  was  no  change,  neither  in 
the  character  of  the  ice  nor  in  the  expedition's  daily  routine.  Their 
toil  was  incredible;  at  times  an  hour's  unremitting  struggle  would 
gain  but  a  few  yards.  The  dogs,  instead  of  aiding  them,  were 
rapidly  becoming  mere  incumbrances.  Four  more  had  been  killed, 
a  fifth  had  been  drowned,  and  two,  wandering  from  camp,  had 
never  returned.  The  second  dog-sled  had  been  abandoned.  The 
condition  of  McPherson's  foot  was  such  that  no  work  could  be 
demanded  from  him.  Hawes,  the  carpenter,  was  down  with  fever 
and  kept  everybody  awake  all  night  by  talking  in  his  sleep.  Worse 
than  all,  however,  Ferriss's  right  hand  was  again  frostbitten,  and 
this  time  Dennison,  the  doctor,  was  obliged  to  amputate  it  above  the 
wrist. 

"...  But  I  am  no  whit  disheartened,"  wrote  Bennett.  "Succeed  I 
must  and  shall." 

A  few  days  after  the  operation  on  Ferriss's  hand  Bennett  de 
cided  it  would  be  advisable  to  allow  the  party  a  full  twenty-four 
hours'  rest.  The  march  of  the  day  before  had  been  harder  than 
any  they  had  yet  experienced,  and,  in  addition  to  McPherson  and 
the  carpenter,  the  doctor  himself  was  upon  the  sick  list. 

In  the  evening  Bennett  and  Ferriss  took  a  long  walk  or  rather 
climb  over  the  ice  to  the  southwest,  picking  out  a  course  for  the 
next  day's  march. 

A  great  friendship,  not  to  say  affection,  had  sprung  up  between 
these  two  men,  a  result  of  their  long  and  close  intimacy  on  board 
the  "Freja"  and  of  the  hardships  and  perils  they  had  shared  during 
the  past  few  weeks  while  leading  the  expedition  in  the  retreat  to 
the  southward.  When  they  had  decided  upon  the  track  of  the  mor 
row's  advance  they  sat  down  for  a  moment  upon  the  crest  of  a 
hummock  to  breathe  themselves,  their  elbows  on  their  knees,  look 
ing  off  to  the  south  over  the  desolation  of  broken  ice. 


292  A  Man's  Woman 

With  his  one  good  hand  Ferriss  drew  a  pipe  and  a  handful  of 
tea  leaves  wrapped  in  oiled  paper  from  the  breast  of  his  deer-skin 
parkie. 

"Do  you  mind  filling  this  pipe  for  me,  Ward?"  he  asked  of  Ben 
nett. 

Bennett  glanced  at  the  tea  leaves  and  handed  them  back  to 
Ferriss,  and  in  answer  to  his  remonstrance  produced  a  pouch  of  his 
own. 

"Tobacco!"  cried  Ferriss,  astonished;  "why,  I  thought  we 
smoked  our  last  aboard  ship." 

"No,  I  saved  a  little  of  mine." 

"Oh,  well,"  answered  Ferriss,  trying  to  interfere  with  Bennett, 
who  was  filling  his  pipe,  "I  don't  want  your  tobacco;  this  tea  does 
very  well." 

"I  tell  you  I  have  eight-tenths  of  a  kilo  left,"  lied  Bennett,  light 
ing  the  pipe  and  handing  it  back  to  him.  "Whenever  you  want  a 
smoke  you  can  set  to  me." 

Bennett  lighted  a  pipe  of  his  own,  and  the  two  began  to  smoke. 

"  'M,  ah !"  murmured  Ferriss,  drawing  upon  the  pipe  ecstatical 
ly,  "I  thought  I  never  was  going  to  taste  good  weed  again  till  we 
should  get  home." 

Bennett  said  nothing.  There  was  a  long  silence.  Home!  what 
did  not  that  word  mean  for  them  ?  To  leave  all  this  hideous,  grisly 
waste  of  ice  behind,  to  have  done  with  fighting,  to  rest,  to  forget 
responsibility,  to  have  no  more  anxiety,  to  be  warm  once  more — 
warm  and  well  fed  and  dry — to  see  a  tree  again,  to  rub  elbows  with 
one's  fellows,  to  know  the  meaning  of  warm  handclasps  and  the 
faces  of  one's  friends. 

"Dick,"  began  Bennett  abruptly  after  a  long  while,  "if  we  get 
stuck  here  in  this  damned  ice  I'm  going  to  send  you  and  probably 
Metz  on  ahead  for  help.  We'll  make  a  two-man  kayak  for  you  to 
use  when  you  reach  the  limit  of  the  pack,  but  besides  the  kayak 
you'll  carry  nothing  but  your  provisions,  sleeping-bags,  and  rifle, 
and  travel  as  fast  as  you  can."  Bennett  paused  for  a  moment,  then 
in  a  different  voice  continued:  "I  wrote  a  letter  last  night  that  I 
was  going  to  give  you  in  case  I  should  have  to  send  you  on  such 
a  journey,  but  I  think  I  might  as  well  give  it  to  you  now." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  an  envelope  carefully  wrapped  in 
oilskin. 

"If  anything  should  happen  to  the  expedition — to  me — I  want 
you  to  see  that  this  letter  is  delivered." 


A  Man's  Woman 


293 


He  paused  again. 

"You  see,  Dick,  it's  like  this;  there's  a  girl—"  his  face  flamed 
suddenly,  "no — no,  a  woman,  a  grand,  noble,  man's  woman,  back 
in  God's  country  who  is  a  great  deal  to  me — everything  in  fact. 
She  doesn't  know,  hasn't  a  guess  that  I  care.  I  never  spoke  to  her 
about  it.  But  if  anything  should  turn  up  I  should  want  her  to  know 
how  it  had  been  with  me,  how  much  she  was  to  me.  So  I've  writ 
ten  her.  You'll  see  that  she  gets  it,  will  you?" 

He  handed  the  little  package  to  Ferriss,  and  continued  indif 
ferently,  and  resuming  his  accustomed  manner: 

"If  we  get  as  far  as  Wrangel  Island  you  can  give  it  back  to  me. 
We  are  bound  to  meet  the  relief  ships  or  the  steam  whalers  in  that 
latitude.  Oh,  you  can  look  at  the  address,"  added  Bennett  as  Fer 
riss,  turning  the  envelope  bottom  side  up,  was  thrusting  it  into  his 
breast  pocket;  "you  know  her  even  better  than  I  do.  It's  Lloyd 
Searight." 

Ferriss's  teeth  shut  suddenly  upon  his  pipestem. 

Bennett  rose.  "Tell  Muck  Tu,"  he  said,  "in  case  I  don't  think 
of  it  again,  that  the  dogs  must  be  fed  from  now  on  from  those  that 
die.  I  shall  want  the  dog  biscuit  and  dried  fish  for  our  own  use." 

"I  suppose  it  will  come  to  that,"  answered  Ferriss. 

"Come  to  that!"  returned  Bennett  grimly;  "I  hope  the  dogs 
themselves  will  live  long  enough  for  us  to  eat  them.  And,  don't 
misunderstand,"  he  added;  "I  talk  about  our  getting  stuck  in  the 
ice,  about  my  not  pulling  through;  it's  only  because  one  must  fore 
see  everything,  be  prepared  for  everything.  Remember — I — shall — 
pull — through." 

But  that  night,  long  after  the  rest  were  sleeping,  Ferriss,  who 
had  not  closed  his  eyes,  bestirred  himself,  and,  as  quietly  as  possi 
ble,  crawled  from  his  sleeping-bag.  He  fancied  there  was  some 
slight  change  in  the  atmosphere,  and  wanted  to  read  the  barometer 
affixed  to  a  stake  just  outside  the  tent.  Yet  when  he  had  noted  that 
it  was,  after  all,  stationary,  he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out 
across  the  ice  with  unseeing  eyes.  Then  from  a  pocket  in  his  furs 
he  drew  a  little  folder  of  morocco.  It  was  pitiably  worn,  stained 
with  sea-water,  patched  and  repatched,  its  frayed  edges  sewed  to 
gether  again  with  ravelings  of  cloth  and  sea-grasses.  Loosening 
with  his  teeth  the  thong  of  walrus-hide  with  which  it  was  tied, 
Ferriss  opened  it  and  held  it  to  the  faint  light  of  an  aurora  just 
paling  in  the  northern  sky. 

"So,"  he  muttered  after  a  while,  "so — Bennett,  too — " 


A  Man's  Woman 

For  a  long  time  Ferriss  stood  looking  at  Lloyd's  picture  till  the 
purple  streamers  in  the  north  faded  into  the  cold  gray  of  the 
heavens.  Then  he  shot  a  glance  above  him. 

"God  Almighty  bless  her  and  keep  her!"  he  prayed. 
Far  off,  many  miles  away,  an  ice-floe  split  with  the  prolonged 
reverberation  of  thunder.    The  aurora  was  gone.     Ferriss  returned 
to  the  tent. 

The  following  week  the  expedition  suffered  miserably.  Snow 
storm  followed  snowstorm,  the  temperature  dropped  to  twenty-two 
degrees  below  the  freezing-point,  and  gales  of  wind  from  the  east 
whipped  and  scourged  the  struggling  men  incessantly  with  myriad 
steel-tipped  lashes.  At  night  the  agony  in  their  feet  was  all  but 
unbearable.  It  was  impossible  to  be  warm,  impossible  to  be  dry. 
Dennison,  in  a  measure,  recovered  his  health,  but  the  ulcer  on  Mc- 
Pherson's  foot  had  so  eaten  the  flesh  that  the  muscles  were  visible. 
Hawes's  monotonous  chatter  and  crazy  whimperings  filled  the  tent 
every  night. 

The  only  pleasures  left  them,  the  only  breaks  in  the  monotony 
of  that  life,  were  to  eat,  and,  when  possible,  to  sleep.  Thought, 
reason,  and  reflection  dwindled  in  their  brains.  Instincts — the  prim 
itive,  elemental  impulses  of  the  animal — possessed  them  instead. 
To  eat,  to  sleep,  to  be  warm — they  asked  nothing  better.  The 
night's  supper  was  a  vision  that  dwelt  in  their  imaginations  hour 
after  hour  throughout  the  entire  day.  Oh,  to  sit  about  the  blue 
flame  of  alcohol  sputtering  underneath  the  old  and  battered  cooker 
of  sheet-iron!  To  smell  the  delicious  savor  of  the  thick,  boiling 
soup!  And  then  the  meal  itself — to  taste  the  hot,  coarse,  meaty 
food;  to  feel  that  unspeakably  grateful  warmth  and  glow,  that 
almost  divine  sensation  of  satiety  spreading  through  their  poor, 
shivering  bodies,  and  then  sleep ;  sleep,  though  quivering  with  cold ; 
sleep,  though  the  wet  searched  the  flesh  to  the  very  marrow ;  sleep, 
though  the  feet  burned  and  crisped  with  torture;  sleep,  sleep,  the 
dreamless  stupefaction  of  exhaustion,  the  few  hours'  oblivion,  the 
day's  short  armistice  from  pain! 

But  stronger,  more  insistent  that  even  these  instincts  of  the 
animal  was  the  blind,  unreasoned  impulse  that  set  their  faces  to  the 
southward:  "To  get  forward,  to  get  forward."  Answering  the  re 
sistless  influence  of  their  leader,  that  indomitable  man  of  iron  whom 
no  fortune  could  break  nor  bend,  and  who  imposed  his  will  upon 
them  as  it  were  a  yoke  of  steel — this  idea  became  for  them  a  sort  of 
obsession.  Forward,  if  it  were  only  a  yard;  if  it  were  only  a  foot. 


A  Man's  Woman  295 

Forward  over  the  heart-breaking,  rubble  ice;  forward  against  the 
biting,  shrieking  wind;  forward  in  the  face  of  the  blinding  snow; 
forward  through  the  brittle  crusts  and  icy  water ;  forward,  although 
every  step  was  an  agony,  though  the  haul-rope  cut  like  a  dull  knife, 
though  their  clothes  were  sheets  of  ice.  Blinded,  panting,  bruised, 
bleeding,  and  exhausted,  dogs  and  men,  animals  all,  the  expedition 
struggled  forward. 

One  day,  a  little  before  noon,  while  lunch  was  being  cooked,  the 
sun  broke  through  the  clouds,  and  for  upward  of  half  an  hour  the 
ice-pack  was  one  blinding,  diamond  glitter.  Bennett  ran  for  his 
sextant  and  got  an  observation,  the  first  that  had  been  possible  for 
nearly. a  month.  He  worked  out  their  latitude  that  same  evening. 

The  next  morning  Ferriss  was  awakened  by  a  touch  on  his 
shoulder.  Bennett  was  standing  over  him. 

"Come  outside  here  a  moment,"  said  Bennett  in  a  low  voice. 
"Don't  wake  the  men." 

"Did  you  get  our  latitude?"  asked  Ferriss  as  the  two  came  out 
of  the  tent. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  want  to  tell  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Seventy- four-nineteen." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Ferriss  quickly. 

"Just  this:  That  the  ice-pack  we're  on  is  drifting  faster  to  the 
north  than  we  are  marching  to  the  south.  We  are  further  north 
now  than  we  were  a  month  ago  for  all  our  marching." 


II 

BY  eleven  o'clock  at  night  the  gale  had  increased  to  such  an 
extent  and  the  sea  had  begun  to  build  so  high  that  it  was  a  question 
whether  or  not  the  whaleboat  would  ride  the  storm.  Bennett 
finally  decided  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  reach  the  land — 
stretching  out  in  a  long,  dark  blur  to  the  southwest — that  night, 
and  that  the  boat  must  run  before  the  wind  if  he  was  to  keep  her 
afloat.  The  number  two  cutter,  with  Ferriss  in  command,  was  a 
bad  sailer,  and  had  fallen  astern.  She  was  already  out  of  hailing 
distance;  but  Bennett,  who  was  at  the  whaleboat's  tiller,  in  the 
instant's  glance  that  he  dared  to  shoot  behind  him  saw  with  satis 
faction  that  Ferriss  had  followed  his  example. 


296  A  Man's  Woman 

The  whaleboat  and  the  number  two  cutter  were  the  only  boats 
now  left  to  the  expedition.  The  third  boat  had  been  abandoned 
long  before  they  had  reached  open  water. 

An  hour  later  Adler,  the  sailing-master,  who  had  been  bailing, 
and  who  sat  facing  Bennett,  looked  back  through  the  storm ;  then, 
turning  to  Bennett,  said: 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  I  think  they  are  signaling  us." 

Bennett  did  not  answer,  but,  with  his  hand  gripping  the  tiller, 
kept  his  face  to  the  front,  his  glance  alternating  between  the  heav 
ing  prow  of  the  boat  and  the  huge  gray  billows  hissing  with  froth 
careering  rapidly  alongside.  To  pause  for  a  moment,  to  vary  by 
ever  so  little  from  the  course  of  the  storm,  might  mean  the  drown 
ing  of  them  all.  After  a  few  moments  Adler  spoke  again,  touching 
his  cap. 

"I'm  sure  I  see  a  signal,  sir." 

"No,  you  don't,"  answered  Bennett. 

"Beg  pardon,  I'm  quite  sure  I  do." 

Bennett  leaned  toward  him,  the  cast  in  his  eyes  twinkling  with  a 
wicked  light,  the  furrow  between  the  eyebrows  deepening.  "I  tell 
you,  you  don't  see  any  signal;  do  you  understand?  You  don't  see 
any  signal  until  I  choose  to  have  you.". 

The  night  was  bitter  hard  for  the  occupants  of  the  whaleboat. 
In  their  weakened  condition  they  were  in  no  shape  to  fight  a  polar 
hurricane  in  an  open  boat. 

For  three  weeks  they  had  not  known  the  meaning  of  full  rations. 
During  the  first  days  after  the  line  of  march  over  the  ice  had  been 
abruptly  changed  to  the  west  in  the  hope  of  reaching  open  water, 
only  three-quarter  rations  had  been  issued,  and  now  for  the  last 
two  days  half  rations  had  been  their  portion.  The  gnawing  of  hun 
ger  had  begun.  Every  man  was  perceptibly  weaker.  Matters 
were  getting  desperate. 

But  by  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  storm  had  blown 
itself  out.  To  Bennett's  inexpressible  relief  the  cutter  hove  in  view. 
Shaping  their  course  to  landward  once  more,  the  boats  kept  com 
pany,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Bennett  and  the  crew  of 
the  whaleboat  successfully  landed  upon  a  bleak,  desolate,  and  wind- 
scourged  coast.  But  in  some  way,  never  afterward  sufficiently  ex 
plained,  the  cutter  under  Ferriss's  command  was  crushed  in  the 
floating  ice  within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  shore.  The  men  anct 
stores  were  landed — the  water  being  shallow  enough  for  wading — 
but  the  boat  was  a  hopeless  wreck. 


A  Man's  Woman  297 

"I  believe  it's  Cape  Shelaski,"  said  Bennett  to  Ferriss  when 
camp  had  been  made  and  their  maps  consulted.  "But  if  it  is,  it's 
charted  thirty-five  minutes  too  far  to  the  west." 

Before  breaking  camp  the  next  morning  Bennett  left  this  record 
under  a  cairn  of  rocks  upon  the  highest  point  of  the  cape,  further 
marking  the  spot  by  one  of  the  boat's  flags : 

"The  Freja  Arctic  Exploring  Expedition  landed  at  this  point  October  28, 
1891.  Our  ship  was  nipped  and  sunk  in  76  deg.  10  min.  north  latitude  on 
the  i2th  of  July  last.  I  then  attempted  a  southerly  march  to  Wrangel  Island, 
but  found  such  a  course  impracticable  on  account  of  northerly  drift  of  ice. 
On  the  ist  of  October  I  accordingly  struck  off  to  the  westward  to  find  open 
water  at  the  limit  of  the  ice,  being  compelled  to  abandon  one  boat  and  two 
sledges  on  the  way.  A  second  boat  was  crushed  beyond  repair  in  drifting 
ice  while  attempting  a  landing  at  this  place.  Our  one  remaining  boat  being 
too  small  to  accommodate  the  members  of  the  expedition,  circumstances 
oblige  me  to  begin  an  overland  march  toward  Kolyuchin  Bay,  following 
the  line  of  the  coast.  We  expect  either  to  winter  among  the  Chuckch  set- 
Clements  mentioned  by  Nordenskjold  as  existing  upon  the  eastern  shores  of 
Kolyuchin  Bay  or  to  fall  in  with  the  relief  ships  or  the  steam  whalers  en 
route.  By  issuing  half  rations  I  have  enough  provisions  for  eighteen  days, 
and  have  saved  all  records,  observations,  papers,  instruments,  etc.  Inclosed 
is  the  muster  roll  of  the  expedition.  No  scurvy  as  yet  and  no  deaths.  Our 
sick  are  William  Hawes,  carpenter,  arctic  fever,  serious;  David  McPherson, 
seaman,  ulceration  of  left  foot,  serious.  The  general  condition  of  the  rest 
of  the  men  is  fair,  though  much  weakened  by  exposure  and  lack  of  food. 
"(Signed)  WARD  BENNETT, 

"Commanding." 

But  during  the  night,  their  first  night  on  land,  Bennett  resolved 
upon  a  desperate  expedient.  Not  only  the  boat  was  to  be  aban 
doned;  but  also  the  sledges,  and  not  only  the  sledges,  but  every 
article  of  weight  not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the 
party.  Two  weeks  before,  the  sun  had  set  not  to  rise  again  for  six 
months.  Winter  was  upon  them  and  darkness.  The  Enemy  was 
drawing  near.  The  great  remorseless  grip  of  the  Ice  was  closing. 
It  was  no  time  for  half-measures  and  hesitation ;  now  it  was  life  or 
death. 

The  sense  of  their  peril,  the  nearness  of  the  Enemy,  strung  Ben 
nett's  nerves  taut  as  harp-strings.  His  will  hardened  to  the  flinty 
hardness  of  the  ice  itself.  His  strength  of  mind  and  of  body  seemed 
suddenly  to  quadruple  itself.  His  determination  was  that  of  the  bat 
tering-ram,  blind,  deaf,  resistless.  The  ugly  set  of  his  face  became 


298  A  Man's  Woman 

all  the  more  ugly,  the  contorted  eyes  flashing,  the  great  jaw  all  but 
simian.  He  appeared  physically  larger.  It  was  no  longer  a  man ; 
it  was  a  giant,  an  ogre,  a  colossal  Jotun  hurling  ice-blocks,  fighting 
out  a  battle  unspeakable,  in  the  dawn  of  the  world,  in  chaos  and  in 
darkness. 

The  impedimenta  of  the  expedition  were  broken  up  into  packs 
that  each  man  carried  upon  his  shoulders.  From  now  on  every 
thing  that  hindered  the  rapidity  of  their  movements  must  be  left 
behind.  Six  dogs  (all  that  remained  of  the  pack  of  eighteen)  still 
accompanied  them. 

Bennett  had  hoped  and  had  counted  upon  his  men  for  an  aver 
age  daily  march  of  sixteen  miles,  but  the  winter  gales  driving  down 
from  the  northeast  beat  them  back ;  the  ice  and  snow  that  covered 
the  land  were  no  less  uneven  than  the  hummocks  of  the  pack.  All 
game  had  migrated  far  to  the  southward. 

Every  day  the  men  grew  weaker  and  weaker;  their  provisions 
dwindled.  Again  and  again  one  or  another  of  them,  worn  out 
beyond  human  endurance,  would  go  to  sleep  while  marching  and 
would  fall  to  the  ground. 

Upon  the  third  day  of  this  overland  march  one  of  the  dogs  sud 
denly  collapsed  upon  the  ground,  exhausted  and  dying.  Bennett 
had  ordered  such  of  the  dogs  as  gave  out  cut  up  and  their  meat  added 
to  the  store  of  the  party's  provisions.  Ferriss  and  Muck  Tu  had 
started  to  pick  up  the  dead  dog  when  the  other  dogs,  famished  and 
savage,  sprang  upon  their  fallen  mate.  The  two  men  struck  and 
kicked,  all  to  no  purpose;  the  dogs  turned  upon  them  snarling  and 
snapping.  They,  too,  demanded  to  live;  they,  too,  wanted  to  be 
fed.  It  was  a  hideous  business.  There  in  that  half-night  of  the 
polar  circle,  lost  and  forgotten  on  a  primordial  shore,  back  into 
the  stone  age  once  more,  men  and  animals  fought  one  another  for 
the  privilege  of  eating  a  dead  dog. 

But  their  life  was  not  all  inhuman ;  Bennett  at  least  could  rise 
even  above  humanity ;  though  his  men  must  perforce  be  dragged  so 
far  below  it.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  Hawes,  the  carpenter, 
died.  When  they  awoke  in  the  morning  he  was  found  motionless 
and  stiff  in  his  sleeping-bag.  Some  sort  of  grave  was  dug,  the  poor 
racked  body  lowered  into  it,  and  before  it  was  filled  with  snow  and 
broken  ice  Bennett,  standing  quietly  in  the  midst  of  the  bare 
headed  group,  opened  his  prayer-book  and  began  with  the  tremen 
dous  words,  "I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life — " 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.    A  week  later  the  actual  star- 


A  Man's  Woman  299 

vation  began.  Slower  and  slower  moved  the  expedition  on  its 
daily  march,  faltering,  staggering,  blinded  and  buffeted  by  the 
incessant  northeast  winds,  cruel,  merciless,  keen  as  knife-blades. 
Hope  long  since  was  dead ;  resolve  wore  thin  under  friction  of  dis 
aster  ;  like  a  rat,  hunger  gnawed  at  them  hour  after  hour ;  the  cold 
was  one  unending  agony.  Still  Bennett  was  unbroken,  still  he 
urged  them  forward.  For  so  long  as  they  could  move  he  would 
drive  them  on. 

Toward  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  one  particularly  hard 
day,  word  was  passed  forward  to  Bennett  at  the  head  of  the  line 
that  something  was  wrong  in  the  rear. 

"It's  Adler;  he's  down  again  and  can't  get  up;  asks  you  to  leave 
him." 

Bennett  halted  the  line  and  went  back  some  little  distance  to  find 
Adler  lying  prone  upon  his  back,  his  eyes  half  closed,  breathing 
short  and  fast.  He  shook  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder. 

"Up  with  you !" 

Adler  opened  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head. 

"I — I'm  done  for  this  time,  sir;  just  leave  me  here — please." 

"H'up!"  shouted  Bennett;  "you're  not  done  for;  I  know  better." 

"Really,  sir,  I— I  can't" 

"H'up!" 

"If  you  would  only  please — for  God's  sake,  sir.  It's  more  than 
I'm  made  for." 

Bennett  kicked  him  in  the  side. 

"H'up  with  you !" 

Adler  struggled  to  his  feet  again,  Bennett  aiding  him. 

"Now,  then,  can  you  go  five  yards?" 

"I  think — I  don't  know — perhaps — " 

"Go  them,  then." 

The  other  moved  forward. 

"Can  you  go  five  more;  answer,  speak  up,  can  you?" 

Adler  nodded  his  head. 

"Go  them — and  another  five — and  another — there — that's  some 
thing  like  a  man,  and  let's  have  no  more  woman's  drivel  about 
dying." 

"But—" 

Bennett  came  close  to  him,  shaking  a  forefinger  in  his  face, 
thrusting  forward  his  chin  wickedly. 

"My  friend,  I'll  drive  you  like  a  dog,  but,"  his  fist  clinched  in 
the  man's  face,  "I'll  make  you  pull  through." 


joo  A  Man's  Woman 

Two  hours  later  Adler  finished  the  day's  march  at  the  head  of 
the  line. 

The  expedition  began  to  eat  its  dogs.  Every  evening  Bennett 
sent  Muck  Tu  and  Adler  down  to  the  shore  to  gather  shrimps, 
though  fifteen  hundred  of  these  shrimps  hardly  filled  a  gill  measure. 
The  party  chewed  reindeer-moss  growing  in  scant  patches  in  the 
snow-buried  rocks,  and  at  times  made  a  thin,  sickly  infusion  from 
the  arctic  willow.  Again  and  again  Bennett  despatched  the  Es 
kimo  and  Clarke,  the  best  shots  in  the  party,  on  hunting  expedi 
tions  to  the  southward.  Invariably  they  returned  empty-handed. 
Occasionally  they  reported  old  tracks  of  reindeer  and  foxes,  but 
the  winter  colds  had  driven  everything  far  inland.  Once  only  Clarke 
shot  a  snow-bunting,  a  little  bird  hardly  bigger  than  a  sparrow, 
Still  Bennett  pushed  forward. 

One  morning  in  the  beginning  of  the  third  week,  after  a  break 
fast  of  two  ounces  of  dog  meat  and  a  half  cup  of  willow  tea,  Ferriss 
and  Bennett  found  themselves  a  little  apart  from  the  others.  The 
men  were  engaged  in  lowering  the  tent.  Ferriss  glanced  behind 
to  be  assured  he  was  out  of  hearing,  then : 

"How  about  McPherson  ?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

McPherson's  foot  was  all  but  eaten  to  the  bone  by  now.  It  was 
a  miracle  how  the  man  had  kept  up  thus  far.  But  at  length  he  had 
begun  to  fall  behind;  every  day  he  straggled  more  and  more,  and 
the  previous  evening  had  reached  camp  nearly  an  hour  after  the  tent 
had  been  pitched.  But  he  was  a  plucky  fellow,  of  sterner  stuff  than 
the  sailing-master,  Adler,  and  had  no  thought  of  giving  up. 

Bennett  made  no  reply  to  Ferriss,  and  the  chief  engineer  did  not 
repeat  the  question.  The  day's  march  began ;  almost  at  once  breast- 
high  snowdrifts  were  encountered,  and  when  these  had  been  left 
behind  the  expedition  involved  itself  upon  the  precipitate  slopes  of 
a  huge  talus  of  ice  and  bare,  black  slabs  of  basalt.  Fully  two  hours 
were  spent  in  clambering  over  this  obstacle,  and  on  its  top  Bennett 
halted  to  breathe  the  men.  But  when  they  started  forward  again  it 
was  found  that  McPherson  could  not  keep  his  feet.  When  he  had 
fallen,  Adler  and  Dennison  had  endeavored  to  lift  him,  but  they 
themselves  were  so  weak  that  they,  too,  fell.  Dennison  could  not 
rise  of  his  own  efforts,  and  instead  of  helping  McPherson  had  to 
be  aided  himself.  Bennett  came  forward,  put  an  arm  about  Mc 
Pherson,  and  hauled  him  to  an  upright  position.  The  man  took 
a  step  forward,  but  his  left  foot  immediately  doubled  under  him, 
and  he  came  to  the  ground  again.  Three  times  this  manoeuvre 


A  Man's  Woman  301 

was  repeated;  so  far  from  marching,  McPherson  could  not  even 
stand. 

"If  I  could  have  a  day's  rest — "  began  McPherson,  unsteadily.. 
Bennett  cast  a  glance  at  Dennison,  the  doctor.  Dennison  shook  his 
head.  The  foot,  the  entire  leg  below  the  knee,  should  have  been 
amputated  days  ago.  A  month's  rest  even  in  a  hospital  at  home 
would  have  benefited  McPherson  nothing. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  minute  Bennett  debated  the  question,  then 
he  turned  to  the  command:  "Forward,  men!" 

"What — wh — "  began  McPherson,  sitting  upon  the  ground, 
looking  from  one  face  to  another,  bewildered,  terrified.  Some  of 
the  men  began  to  move  off. 

«Wait — wait,"  exclaimed  the  cripple,  "I — I  can  get  along— I— 
He  rose  to  his  knees,  made  a  great  effort  to  regain  his  footing,  and 
once  more  came  crashing  down  upon  the  ice. 

"Forward!" 

"But — but — but —    Oh,  you're  not  going  to  leave  me,  sir?" 

"Forward !" 

"He's  been  my  chum,  sir,  all  through  the  voyage,"  said  one  of 
the  men,  touching  his  cap  to  Bennett ;  "I  had  just  as  soon  be  left 
with  him.  I'm  about  done  myself." 

Another  joined  in : 

"I'll  stay,  too — I  can't  leave— it's— it's  too  terrible." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation.  Those  who  had  begun  to 
move  on  halted.  The  whole  expedition  wavered. 

Bennett  caught  the- dog-whip  from  Muck  Tu's  hand.  His  voice 
rang  like  the  alarm  of  a  trumpet. 

"Forward !" 

Once  more  Bennett's  discipline  prevailed.  His  iron  hand  shut 
down  upon  his  men,  more  than  ever  resistless.  Obediently  they 
turned  their  faces  to  the  southward.  The  march  was  resumed. 

Another  day  passed,  then  two.  Still  the  expedition  struggled 
on.  With  every  hour  their  sufferings  increased.  It  did  not  seem 
that  anything  human  could  endure  such  stress  and  yet  survive.  To 
ward  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  third  night  Adler  woke 
Bennett. 

"It's  Clarke,  sir ;  he  and  I  sleep  in  the  same  bag.  I  think  he's 
going,  sir." 

One  by  one  the  men  in  the  tent  were  awakened,  and  the  train- 
oil-lamp  was  lighted. 

Clarke  lay  in  his  sleeping-bag  unconscious,  and  at  long  intervals 


A  Man's  Woman 

drawing  a  faint,  quick  breath.  The  doctor  bent  over  him,  feeling 
his  pulse,  but  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

"He's  dying — quietly — exhaustion  from  starvation." 

A  few  moments  later  Clarke  began  to  tremble  slightly,  the  mouth 
opened  wide ;  a  faint  rattle  came  from  the  throat. 

Four  miles  was  as  much  as  could  be  made  good  the  next  day, 
and  this  though  the  ground  was  comparatively  smooth.  Ferriss  was 
continually  falling.  Dennison  and  Metz  were  a  little  light-headed, 
and  Bennett  at  one  time  wondered  if  Ferriss  himself  had  absolute 
control  of  his  wits.  Since  morning  the  wind  had  been  blowing 
strongly  in  their  faces.  By  noon  it  had  increased.  At  four  o'clock 
a  violent  gale  was  howling  over  the  reaches  of  ice  and  rock-ribbed 
land.  It  was  impossible  to  go  forward  while  it  lasted.  The 
stronger  gusts  fairly  carried  their  feet  from  under  them.  At  half- 
past  four  the  party  halted.  The  gale  was  now  a  hurricane.  The 
expedition  paused,  collected  itself,  went  forward ;  halted  again, 
again  attempted  to  move,  and  came  at  last  to  a  definite  standstill  in 
whirling  snow-clouds  and  blinding,  stupefying  blasts. 

"Pitch  the  tent!"  said  Bennett  quietly.  "We  must  wait  now 
till  it  blows  over." 

In  the  lee  of  a  mound  of  ice-covered  rock  some  hundred  yards 
from  the  coast  the  tent  was  pitched,  and  supper,  such  as  it  was, 
eaten  in  silence.  All  knew  what  this  enforced  halt  must  mean  for 
them.  That  supper — each  man  could  hold  his  portion  in  the  hollow 
of  one  hand — was  the  last  of  their  regular  provisions.  March  they 
could  not.  What  now?  Before  crawling  into  their  sleeping-bags, 
and  at  Bennett's  request,  all  joined  in  repeating  the  Creed  and  the 
Lord's  Prayer. 

The  next  day  passed,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  The  gale 
continued  steadily.  The  southerly  march  was  discontinued.  All 
day  and  all  night  the  men  kept  in  the  tent,  huddled  in  the  sleeping- 
bags,  sometimes  sleeping  eighteen  and  twenty  hours  out  of  the 
twenty- four.  They  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  lapse  of  time ;  sen 
sation  even  of  suffering  left  them ;  the  very  hunger  itself  had  ceased 
to  gnaw.  Only  Bennett  and  Ferriss  seemed  to  keep  their  heads. 
Then  slowly  the  end  began. 

For  that  last  week  Bennett's . entries  in  his  ice- journal  were  as 
follows : 

"November  2gth — Monday — Camped  at  4:30  P.M.  about  100  yards  from  the 
coast.  Open  water  to  the  eastward  as  far  as  I  can  see.  If  I  had  not  been 


A  Man's  Woman  303 

compelled  to  abandon  my  boats — but  it  is  useless  to  repine.  I  must  look 
our  situation  squarely  in  the  face.  At  noon  served  out  last  beef-extract, 
which  we  drank  with  some  willow  tea.  Our  remaining  provisions  consist 
of  four-fifteenths  of  a  pound  of  pemmican  per  man,  and  the  rest  of  the  dog 
meat.  Where  are  the  relief  ships?  We  should  at  least  have  met  the  steam 
whalers  long  before  this. 

"November  3oth — Tuesday — The  doctor  amputated  Mr.  Ferriss's  other 
hand  to-day.  Living  gale  of  wind  from  northeast.  Impossible  to  march 
against  it  in  our  weakened  condition ;  must  camp  here  till  it  abates.  Made 
soup  of  the  last  of  the  dog  meat  this  afternoon.  Our  last  pemmican  gone. 

"December  ist — Wednesday — Everybody  getting  weaker.  Metz  breaking 
down.  Sent  Adler  down  to  the  shore  to  gather  shrimps.  We  had  about  a 
mouthful  apiece  for  lunch.  Supper  a  spoonful  of  glycerine  and  hot  water. 

"December  2d — Thursday — Metz  died  during  the  night.  Hansen  dying. 
Still  blowing  a  gale  from  the  northeast.  A  hard  night. 

"December  3d — Friday — Hansen  died  during  early  morning.  Muck  Tu 
shot  a  ptarmigan.  Made  soup.  Dennison  breaking  down. 

"December  4th — Saturday — Buried  Hansen  under  slabs  of  ice.  Spoonful 
of  glycerine  and  hot  water  at  noon. 

"December  sth — Sunday — Dennison  found  dead  this  morning  between 
Adler  and  myself.  Too  weak  to  bury  him,  or  even  carry  him  out  of  the 
tent.  He  must  lie  where  he  is.  Divine  services  at  5:30  P.M.  Last  spoonful 
of  glycerine  and  hot  water." 

The  next  day  was  Monday,  and  at  some  indeterminate  hour  of 
the  twenty-four,  though  whether  it  was  night  or  noon  he  could  not 
say,  Ferriss  woke  in  his  sleeping-bag  and  raised  himself  on  an  elbow, 
and  for  a  moment  sat  stupidly  watching  Bennett  writing  in  his 
journal.  Noticing  that  he  was  awake,  Bennett  looked  up  from  the 
page  and  spoke  in  a  voice  thick  and  muffled  because  of  the  swelling 
of  his  tongue. 

"How  long  has  this  wind  been  blowing,  Ferriss?" 

"Since  a  week  to-day,"  answered  the  other. 

Bennett  continued  his  writing. 

".  .  .  Incessant  gales  of  wind  for  over  a  week.  Impossible  to  move 
against  them  in  our  weakened  condition.  But  to  stay  here  is  to  perish. 
God  help  us.  It  is  the  end  of  everything." 

Bennett  drew  a  line  across  the  page  under  the  last  entry,  and, 
still  holding  the  book  in  his  hand,  gazed  slowly  about  the  tent. 

There  were  six  of  them  left — five  huddled  together  in  that 
miserable  tent — the  sixth,  Adler,  being  down  on  the  shore  gathering 
shrimps.  In  the  strange  and  gloomy  half-light  that  filled  the  tent 


304  A  Man's  Woman 

these  survivors  of  the  "Freja"  looked  less  like  men  than  beasts. 
Their  hair  and  beards  were  long,  and  seemed  one  with  the  fur 
covering  of  their  bodies.  Their  faces  were  absolutely  black  with 
dirt,  and  their  limbs  were  monstrously  distended  and  fat — fat  as 
things  bloated  and  swollen  are  fat.  It  was  the  abnormal  fatness  of 
starvation,  the  irony  of  misery,  the  huge  joke  that  arctic  famine 
plays  upon  those  whom  it  afterward  destroys.  The  men  moved 
about  at  times  on  their  hands  and  knees;  their  tongues  were  dis 
tended,  round,  and  slate-colored,  like  the  tongues  of  parrots,  and 
when  they  spoke  they  bit  them  helplessly. 

Near  the  flap  of  the  tent  lay  the  swollen  dead  body  of  Dennison. 
Two  of  the  party  dozed  inert  and  stupefied  in  their  sleeping-bags. 
Muck  Tu  was  in  the  corner  of  the  tent  boiling  his  sealskin  footnips 
over  the  sheet-iron  cooker.  Ferriss  and  Bennett  sat  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  tent,  Bennett  using  his  knee  as  a  desk,  Ferriss  trying 
to  free  himself  from  the  sleeping-bag  with  the  stumps  of  his  arms. 
Upon  one  of  these  stumps,  the  right  one,  a  tin  spoon  had  been  lashed. 

The  tent  was  full  of  foul  smells.  The  smell  of  drugs  and  of 
mouldy  gunpowder,  the  smell  of  dirty  rags,  of  unwashed  bodies,  the 
smell  of  stale  smoke,  of  scorching  sealskin,  of  soaked  and  rotting 
canvas  that  exhaled  from  the  tent  cover — every  smell  but  that  of 
food. 

Outside  the  unleashed  wind  yelled  incessantly,  like  a  Sabbath  of 
witches,  and  spun  about  the  pitiful  shelter  and  went  rioting  past, 
leaping  and  somersaulting  from  rock  to  rock,  tossing  handfuls  of 
dry,  dust-like  snow  into  the  air;  folly-stricken,  insensate,  an  enor 
mous,  mad  monster  gamboling  there  in  some  hideous  dance  of 
death,  capricious,  headstrong,  pitiless  as  a  famished  wolf. 

In  front  of  the  tent  and  over  a  ridge  of  barren  rocks  was  an  arm 
of  the  sea  dotted  with  blocks  of  ice  moving  silently  and  swiftly  on 
ward;  while  back  from  the  coast,  and  back  from  the  tent  and  to 
the  south  and  to  the  west  and  to  the  east,  stretched  the  illimitable 
waste  of  land,  rugged,  gray,  harsh;  snow  and  ice  and  rock,  rock 
and  ice  and  snow,  stretching  away  there  under  the  sombre  sky 
forever  and  forever;  gloomy,  untamed,  terrible,  an  empty  region — 
the  scarred  battlefield  of  chaotic  forces,  the  savage  desolation  of  a 
prehistoric  world. 

"Where's  Adler?"  asked  Ferriss. 

"He's  away  after  shrimps,"  responded  Bennett. 

Bennett's  eyes  returned  to  his  journal  and  rested  on  the  open 
page  thoughtfully. 


A  Man's  Woman 


305 


"Do  you  know  what  I've  just  written  here,  Ferriss?"  he  asked, 
adding  without  waiting  for  an  answer;  "I've  written,  'It's  the  end 
of  everything/  ' 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  admitted  Ferriss,  looking  about  the  tent. 

"Yes,    the    end    of    everything.      It's    come— at    last. 
Well."    There  was  a  long  silence.    One  of  the  men  in  the  sleeping- 
bags  groaned  and  turned  upon  his  face.     Outside  the  wind  lapsed 
suddenly  to  a  prolonged  sigh  of  infinite  sadness,  clamoring  again 
upon  the  instant. 

"Dick,"  said  Bennett,  returning  his  journal  to  the  box  of  records, 
"it  is  the  end  of  everything,  and  just  because  it  is  I  want  to  talk  to 
you — to  ask  you  something." 

Ferriss  came  nearer.  The  horrid  shouting  of  the  wind  deadened 
the  sound  of  their  voices ;  the  others  could  not  hear,  and  by  now 
it  would  have  mattered  very  little  to  any  of  them  if  they  had. 

"Dick,"  began  Bennett,  "nothing  makes  much  difference  now.  In 
a  few  hours  we  shall  all  be  like  Dennison  here;"  he  tapped  the; 
body  of  the  doctor,  who  had  died  during  the  night.  It  was  already 
frozen  so  hard  that  his  touch  upon  it  resounded  as  if  it  had  been  a 
log  of  wood.  "We  shall  be  like  this  pretty  soon.  But  before— well, 
while  I  can,  I  want  to  ask  you  something  about  Lloyd  Searight. 
You've  known  her  all  your  life,  and  you  saw  her  later  than  I  did 
before  we  left.  You  remember  I  had  to  come  to  the  ship  two  days 
before  you,  about  the  bilge  pumps." 

While  Bennett  had  been  speaking  Ferriss  had  been  sitting  very 
erect  upon  his  sleeping-bag,  drawing  figures  and  vague  patterns  in 
the  fur  of  his  deerskin  coat  with  the  tip  of  the  tin  spoon.  Yes, 
Bennett  was  right;  he,  Ferriss,  had  known  her  all  his  life,  and  it 
was  no  doubt  because  of  this  very  fact  that  she  had  come  to  be  so 
dear  to  him.  But  he  had  not  always  known  it,  had  never  dis 
covered  his  love  for  her  until  the  time  was  at  hand  to  say  good- 
by,  to  leave  her  for  this  mad  dash  for  the  Pole.  It  had  been  too 
late  to  speak  then,  and  Ferriss  had  never  told  her.  She  was  never 
to  know  that  he,  too — like  Bennett — cared. 

"It  seems  rather  foolish,"  continued  Bennett  clumsily,  "but  if  I 
thought  she  had  ever  cared  for  me — in  that  way — why,  it  would 
make  this  that  is  coming  to  us  seem — I  don't  know — easier  to  be 
borne  perhaps.  I  say  it  very  badly,  but  it  would  not  be  so  hard  to 
die  if  I  thought  she  had  ever  loved  me — a  bit." 

Ferriss  was  thinking  very  fast.  Why  was  it  he  had  never 
guessed  something  like  this?  But  in  Ferriss's  mind  the  idea  of  the 


306  A  Man's  Woman 

love  of  a  woman  had  never  associated  itself  with  Bennett,  that  great, 
harsh  man  of  colossal  frame,  so  absorbed  in  his  huge  projects,  so 
welded  to  his  single  aim,  furthering  his  purposes  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  other  thought,  desire,  or  emotion.  Bennett  was  a  man's 
man.  But  here  Ferriss  checked  himself.  Bennett  himself  had 
called  her  a  man's  woman,  a  grand,  splendid  man's  woman.  He 
was  right ;  he  was  right.  She  was  no  less  than  that ;  small  wonder, 
after  all,  that  Bennett  had  been  attracted  to  her.  What  a  pair  they 
were,  strong,  masterful  both,  insolent  in  the  consciousness  of  their 
power ! 

"You  have  known  her  so  well  and  for  so  long,"  continued  Ben 
nett,  "that  I  am  sure  she  must  have  said  something  to  you  about 
me.  Tell  me,  did  she  ever  say  anything — or  not  that— but  imply  in 
her  manner,  give  you  to  understand  that  she  would  have  married 
me  if  I  had  asked  her?" 

Ferriss  found  time,  even  in  such  an  hour,  to  wonder  at  the  sud 
den  and  unexpected  break  in  the  uniform  hardness  of  Bennett's 
character.  Ferriss  knew  him  well  by  now.  Bennett  was  not  a 
man  to  ask  concessions,  to  catch  at  small  favors.  What  he  wanted 
he  took  with  an  iron  hand,  without  ruth  and  without  scruple.  But 
in  the  unspeakable  dissolution  in  which  they  were  now  involved  did 
anything  make  a  difference?  The  dreadful  mill  in  which  they  had 
been  ground  had  crushed  from  them  all  petty  distinctions  of  per 
sonality,  individuality.  Humanity — the  elements  of  character  com 
mon  to  all  men — only  remained. 

But  Ferriss  was  puzzled  as  to  how  he  should  answer  Bennett. 
On  the  one  hand  was  the  woman  he  loved,  and  on  the  other  Bennett, 
his  best  friend,  his  chief,  his  hero.  They,  too,  had  lived  together  for 
so  long,  had  fought  out  the  fight  with  the  Enemy  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  had  battled  with  the  same  dangers,  had  dared  the  same 
sufferings,  had  undergone  the  same  defeats  and  disappointments. 

Ferriss  felt  himself  in  grievous  straits.  Must  he  tell  Bennett 
the  truth?  Must  this  final  disillusion  be  added  to  that  long  train 
of-  others,  the  disasters,  the  failures,  the  disappointments,  and  de 
ferred  hopes  of  all  those  past  months  ?  Must  Bennett  die  hugging  to 
his  heart  this  bitterness  as  well? 

"I  sometimes  thought,"  observed  Bennett  with  a  weak  smile, 
"that  she  did  care  a  little.  I've  surely  seen  something  like  that  in 
her  eyes  at  certain  moments.  I  wish  I  had  spoken.  Did  she  ever 
say  anything  to  you  ?  Do  you  think  she  would  have  married  me  if  I 
had  asked  her?"  He  paused,  waiting  for  an  answer. 


A  Man's  Woman  307 

"Oh — yes,"  hazarded  Ferriss.  driven  to  make  some  sort  of 
response,  hoping  to  end  the  conversation ;  "yes,  I  think  she 
would." 

"You  do?"  said  Bennett  quickly.  "You  think  she  would?  What 
did  she  say?  Did  she  ever  say  anything  to  you?" 

The  thing  was  too  cruel ;  Ferriss  shrank  from  it.  But  suddenly 
an  idea  occurred  to  him.  Did  anything  make  any  difference  now? 
Why  not  tell  his  friend  that  which  he  wanted  to  hear,  even  if  it 
were  not  the  truth?  After  all  that  Bennett  had  suffered  why  could 
he  not  die  content  at  least  in  this?  What  did  it  matter  if  he  spoke? 
Did  anything  matter  at  such  a  time  when  they  were  all  to  die 
within  the  next  twenty- four  hours?  Bennett  was  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes :  there  was  no  time  to  think  of  consequences.  Con 
sequences?  But  there  were  to  be  no  consequences.  This  was  the 
end.  Yet  could  Ferriss  make  Bennett  receive  such  an  untruth? 
Ferriss  did  not  believe  that  Lloyd  cared  for  Bennett;  knew  that 
she  did  not,  in  fact,  and  if  she  had  cared,  did  Bennett  think  for  an 
instant  that  she — of  all  women — would  have  confessed  the  fact,  con 
fessed  it  to  him,  Bennett's  most  intimate  friend  ?  Ferriss  had  known 
Lloyd  well  for  a  long  time,  had  at  last  come  to  love  her.  But  could 
he  himself  tell  whether  or  no  Lloyd  cared  for  him?  No,  he  could 
not,  certainly  he  could  not. 

Meanwhile  Bennett  was  waiting  for  his  answer.  Ferriss's  mind 
was  all  confused.  He  could  no  longer  distinguish  right  from  wrong. 
If  the  lie  would  make  Bennett  happier  in  this  last  hour  of  his  life, 
why  not  tell  the  lie? 

"Yes,"  answered  Ferriss,  "she  did  say  something  once." 

"She  did?" 

"Yes,"  continued  Ferriss  slowly,  trying  to  invent  the  most  plausi 
ble  lie.  "We  had  been  speaking  of  the  expedition  and  of  you.  I 
don't  know  how  the  subject  was  brought  up,  but  it  came  in  very 
naturally  at  length.  She  said — yes,  I  recall  it.  She  said:  'You 
must  bring  him  back  to  me.  Remember  he  is  everything  to  me — 
everything  in  the  world/  fi 

"She — "  Bennett  cleared  his  throat,  then  tugged  at  his  mus 
tache  ;  "she  said  that  ?" 

Ferriss  nodded. 

"Ah!"  said  Bennett  with  a  quick  breath,  then  he  added:  "I'm 
glad  of  that;  you  haven't  any  idea  how  glad  I  am,  Dick — in  spite 
of  everything." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  guess  I  have,"  murmured  Ferriss. 


A  Man's  Woman 

"No,  no,  indeed,  you  haven't,"  returned  the  other.  "One  has  to 
love  a  woman  like  that,  Dick,  and  have  her— and  find  out— and  have 
things  come  right,  to  appreciate  it.  She  would  have  been  my  wife 
after  all.  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  Dick.  Congratulate  me." 

He  rose,  holding  out  his  hand ;  Ferriss  feebly  rose,  too,  and  in 
stinctively  extended  his  arm,  but  withdrew  it  suddenly.  Bennett 
paused  abruptly,  letting  his  hand  fall  to  his  side,  and  the  two  men 
remained  there  an  instant,  looking  at  the  stumps  of  Ferriss's  arms, 
the  tin  spoon  still  lashed  to  the  right  wrist. 

A  few  hours  later  Bennett  noted  that  the  gale  had  begun  per 
ceptibly  to  abate.  By  afternoon  he  was  sure  that  the  storm  would 
be  over.  As  he  turned  to  re-enter  the  tent  after  reading  the  wind- 
gauge  he  noted  that  Kamiska,  their  one  remaining  dog,  had  come 
back,  and  was  sitting  on  a  projection  of  ice  a  little  distance  away, 
uncertain  as  to  her  reception  after  her  absence.  Bennett  was  per 
suaded  that  Kamiska  had  not  run  away.  Of  all  the  Ostiaks  she  had 
been  the  most  faithful.  Bennett  chose  to  believe  that  she  had  wan 
dered  from  the  tent  and  had  lost  herself  in  the  blinding  snow.  But 
here  was  food.  Kamiska  could  be  killed;  life  could  be  prolonged  a 
day  or  two,  perhaps  three,  while  the  strongest  man  of  the  party, 
carrying  the  greater  portion  of  the  dog  meat  on  his  shoulders,  could 
push  forward  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  reach  Kolyuchin  Bay  and  the 
Chuckch  settlements  and  return  with  aid.  But  who  could  go? 
Assuredly  not  Ferriss,  so  weak  he  could  scarcely  keep  on  his  feet; 
not  Adler,  who  at  times  was  delirious,  and  who  needed  the  dis 
cipline  of  a  powerful  leader  to  keep  him  to  his  work ;  Muck  Tu,  the 
Eskimo,  could  not  be  trusted  with  the  lives  of  all  of  them,  and  the 
two  remaining  men  were  in  all  but  a  dying  condition.  Only  one 
man  of  them  all  was  equal  to  the  task,  only  one  of  them  who  still 
retained  his  strength  of  body  and  mind;  he  himself,  Bennett.  Yes, 
but  to  abandon  his  men  ? 

He  crawled  into  the  tent  again  to  get  the  rifle  with  which  to 
shoot  the  dog,  but  suddenly  possessed  of  an  idea,  paused  for  a 
moment,  seated  on  the  sleeping-bag,  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Beaten?  Was  he  beaten  at  last?  Had  the  Enemy  conquered? 
Had  the  Ice  inclosed  him  in  its  vast,  remorseless  grip?  Then  once 
more  his  determination  grew  big  within  him;  for  a  last  time  that 
iron  will  rose  up  in  mighty  protest  of  defeat.  No,  no,  no;  he  was 
not  beaten;  he  would  live;  he,  the  strongest,  the  fittest,  would  sur 
vive.  Was  it  not  right  that  the  mightiest  should  live?  Was  it  not 
the  great  law  of  nature?  He  knew  himself  to  be  strong  enough  to 


A  Man's  Woman 

move ;  to  inarch,  perhaps,  for  two  whole  days ;  and  now  food  had 
come  to  them,  to  him.  Yes,  but  to  abandon  his  men?" 

He  had  left  McPherson,  it  is  true;  but  then  the  lives  of  all  of 
them  had  been  involved — one  life-  against  eleven.  Now  he  was 
thinking  only  of  himself.  But  Ferriss — no,  he  could  not  leave 
Ferriss.  Ferriss  would  come  with  him.  They  would  share  the  dog 
meat  between  them — the  whole  of  it.  He,  with  Ferriss,  would  push 
on.  He  would  reach  Kolyuchin  Bay  and  the  settlements.  He  would 
be  saved ;  he  would  reach  home ;  would  come  back — come  back  to 
Lloyd,  who  loved  him.  Yes,  but  to  abandon  his  men? 

Then  Bennett's  great  fist  closed,  closed  and  smote  heavily  upon 
his  knee. 

"No,"  he  said  decisively. 

He  had  spoken  his  thoughts  aloud,  and  Ferriss,  who  had  crawled 
into  his  sleeping-bag  again,  looked  at  him  curiously.  Even  Muck 
Tu  turned  his  head  from  the  sickening  mess  reeking  upon  the 
cooker.  There  was  a  noise  of  feet  at  the  flap  of  the  tent. 

''It's  Adler,"  muttered  Ferriss. 

\dler  tore  open  the  flap. 

i'hen  he  shouted  to  Bennett:  "Three  steam  whalers  off  the  foot 

.he  floe,  sir;  boat  putting  off!     What  orders,  sir?" 

Bennett  looked  at  him  stupidly,  as  yet  without  definite  thought. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

The  men  in  the  sleeping-bags,  roused  by  Adler's  shout,  sat  up 
and  listened  stolidly. 

"Steam  whalers?"  said  Bennett  slowly.  "Where?  I  guess  not," 
he  added,  shaking  his  head. 

Adler  was  swaying  in  his  place  with  excitement. 

"Three  whalers,"  he  repeated,  "close  in.  They've  put  off — oh, 
my  God !  Listen  to  that." 

The  unmistakable  sound  of  a  steamer's  whistle,  raucous  and 
prolonged,  came  to  their  ears  from  the  direction  of  the  coast.  One 
of  the  men  broke  into  a  feeble  cheer.  The  whole  tent  was  rousing 
up.  Again  and  again  came  the  hoarse,  insistent  cry  of  the  whistle. 

"What  orders,  sir?"  repeated  Adler. 

A  clamor  of  voices  filled  the  tent. 

Ferriss  came  quickly  up  to  Bennett,  trying  to  make  himself 
heard. 

"Listen!"  he  cried  with  eager  intentness,  "what  I  told  you — a 
while  ago — about  Lloyd — I  thought — it's  all  a  mistake,  you  don't 
understand — " 


2 io  A  Man's  Woman 

Bennett  was  not  listening. 

"What  orders,  sir?"  exclaimed  Adler  for  the  third  time. 

Bennett  drew  himself  up. 

"My  compliments  to  the  officer  in  command.  Tell  him  there  are 
six  of  us  left — tell  him — oh,  tell  him  anything  you  damn  please. 
Men,"  he  cried,  his  harsh  face  suddenly  radiant,  "make  ready  to  get 
out  of  this !  We're  going  home,  going  home  to  those  who  love  us, 


men." 


Ill 

As  Lloyd  Searight  turned  into  Calumet  Square  on  her  way  from 
the  bookseller's,  with  her  purchases  under  her  arm,  she  was  sur 
prised  to  notice  a  drop  of  rain  upon  the  back  of  one  of  her  white 
gloves.  She  looked  up  quickly;  the  sun  was  gone.  On  the  east 
side  of  the  square,  under  the  trees,  the  houses  that  at  this  hour  of 
the  afternoon  should  have  been  overlaid  with  golden  light  were  in 
shadow.  The  heat  that  had  been  palpitating  through  all  the  city's 
streets  since  early  morning  was  swiftly  giving  place  to  a  certain 
cool  and  odorous  dampness.  There  was  even  a  breeze  beginning  to 
stir  in  the  tops  of  the  higher  elms.  As  the  drops  began  to  thicken 
upon  the  warm,  sun-baked  asphalt  underfoot  Lloyd  sharply  quick 
ened  her  pace.  But  the  summer  storm  was  coming  up  rapidly.  By 
the  time  she  reached  the  great  granite-built  agency  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  square  she  was  all  but  running,  and  as  she  put  her  key 
in  the  door  the  rain  swept  down  with  a  prolonged  and  muffled 
roar. 

She  let  herself  into  the  spacious,  airy  hallway  of  the  agency, 
shutting  the  door  by  leaning  against  it,  and  stood  there  for  an  instant 
to  get  her  breath.  Rownie,  the  young  mulatto  girl,  one  of  the  ser 
vants  of  the  house,  who  was  going  upstairs  with  an  armful  of  clean 
towels,  turned  about  at  the  closing  of  the  door  and  called : 

"Jus'  in  time,  Miss  Lloyd ;  jus'  in  time.  I  reckon  Miss  Wakeley 
and  Miss  Esther  Thielman  going  to  get  for  sure  wet.  They  ain't 
neither  one  of  'em  took  ary  umberel." 

"Did  Miss  Wakeley  and  Miss  Thielman  both  go  out?"  de 
manded  Lloyd  quickly.  "Did  they  both  go  on  a  call  ?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Lloyd,"  answered  Rownie.  "I  don't  know  because 
why  Miss  Wakeley  went,  but  Miss  Esther  Thielman  got  a  typhoid 
call— another  one.  That's  three  f'om  this  house  come  next  Sun- 


A  Man's  Woman  311 

day  week.  I  reckon  Miss  Wakeley  going  out  meks  you  next  on  call, 
Miss  Lloyd." 

While  Rownie  had  been  speaking  Lloyd  had  crossed  the  hall  to 
where  the  roster  of  the  nurses'  names,  in  little  movable  slides,  hung 
against  the  wall.  As  often  as  a  nurse  was  called  out  she  removed 
her  name  from  the  top  of  this  list  and  slid  it  into  place  at  the  bot 
tom,  so  that  whoever  found  her  name  at  the  top  of  the  roster  knew 
that  she  was  "next  on  call"  and  prepared  herself  accordingly. 

Lloyd's  name  was  now  at  the  top  of  the  list.  She  had  not  been 
gone  five  minutes  from  the  agency,  and  it  was  rare  for  two  nurses 
to  be  called  out  in  so  short  a  time. 

"Is  it  your  tu'n?"  asked  Rownie  as  Lloyd  faced  quickly  about. 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  Lloyd,  running  up  the  stairs,  adding  as  she 
passed  the  mulatto:  "There's  been  no  call  sent  in  since  Miss  Thiel- 
man  left,  has  there,  Rownie?"  Rownie  shook  her  head. 

Lloyd  went  directly  to  her  room,  tossed  her  books  aside  without 
removing  the  wrappers,  and  set  about  packing  her  satchel.  When 
this  was  done  she  changed  her  tailor-made  street  dress  and  crisp 
skirt  for  clothes  that  would  not  rustle  when  she  moved,  and  put 
herself  neatly  to  rights,  stripping  off  her  rings  and  removing  the 
dog-violets  from  her  waist.  Then  she  went  to  the  round,  old- 
fashioned  mirror  that  hung  between  the  windows  of  her  room,  and 
combed  back  her  hair  in  a  great  roll  from  her  forehead  and  temples, 
and  stood  there  a  moment  or  so  when  she  had  done,  looking  at 
her  reflection. 

She  was  tall  and  of  a  very  vigorous  build,  full-throated,  deep- 
chested,  with  large,  strong  hands  and  solid,  round  wrists.  Her 
face  was  rather  serious;  one  did  not  expect  her  to  smile  easily;  the 
eyes  dull  blue,  with  no  trace  of  sparkle  and  set  deep  under  heavy, 
level  eyebrows.  Her  mouth  was  the  mouth  of  the  obstinate,  of  the 
strong-willed,  and  her  chin  was  not  small.  But  her  hair  was  a 
veritable  glory,  a  dull-red  flame,  that  bore  back  from  her  face  in 
one  great  solid  roll,  dull  red,  like  copper  or  old  bronze,  thick, 
heavy,  almost  gorgeous  in  its  sombre  radiance.  Dull-red  hair,  dull- 
blue  eyes,  and  a  faint,  dull  glow  forever  on  her  cheeks,  Lloyd  was 
a  beautiful  woman;  much  about  her  that  was  regal,  for  she  was 
very  straight  as  well  as  very  tall,  and  could  look  down  upon  most 
women  and  upon  not  a  few  men. 

Lloyd  turned  from  the  mirror,  laying  down  the  comb.  She  had 
yet  to  pack  her  nurse's  bag,  or,  since  this  was  always  ready,  to 
make  sure  that  none  of  its  equipment  was  lacking.  She  was  very 


A  Man's  Woman 

proud  of  this  bag,  as  she  had  caused  it  to  be  made  after  her  own 
ideas  and  design.  It  was  of  black  Russia  leather  and  in  the  form 
of  an  ordinary  valise,  but  set  off  with  a  fine  silver  clasp  bearing 
her  name  and  the  agency's  address.  She  brought  it  from  the 
closet  and  ran  over  its  contents,  murmuring  the  while  to  herself : 

"Clinical  thermometer — brandy — hypodermic  syringe — vial  of 
oxalic-acid  crystals— minim-glass— temperature  charts;  yes,  yes, 
everything  right." 

While  she  was  still  speaking  Miss  Douglass,  the  fever  nurse, 
knocked  at  her  door,  and,  finding  it  ajar,  entered  without  further 
ceremony. 

"Are  you  in,  Miss  Searight  ?"  called  Miss  Douglass,  looking  about 
the  room,  for  Lloyd  had  returned  to  the  closet  and  was  busy  wash 
ing  the  minim-glass. 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Lloyd,  "I  am.     Sit  down." 

^Rownie  told  me  you  are  next  on  call,"  said  the  other,  dropping 
on  Lloyd's  couch. 

"So  I  am;  I  was  very  nearly  caught,  too.  I  ran  over  across  the 
square  for  five  minutes,  and  while  I  was  gone  Miss  Wakeley  and 
Esther  Thielman  were  called.  My  name  is  at  the  top  now." 

"Esther  got  a  typhoid  case  from  Dr.  Pitts.  Do  you  know,  Lloyd, 
that's — let  me  see,  that's  four — seven — nine — that's  ten  typhoid  cases 
in  the  city  that  I  can  think  of  right  now." 

"It's  everywhere;  yes,  I  know,"  answered  Lloyd,  coming  out  of 
the  room,  carefully  drying  the  minim-glass. 

"We  are  going  to  have  trouble  with  it,"  continued  the  fever 
nurse;  "plenty  of  it  before  cool  weather  comes.  It's  almost 
epidemic." 

Lloyd  held  the  minim-glass  against  the  light,  scrutinizing  it 
with  narrowed  lids. 

"What  did  Esther  say  when  she  knew  it  was  an  infectious 
case?"  she  asked.  "Did  she  hesitate  at  all?" 

"Not  she!"  declared  Miss  Douglass.    "She's  no  Harriet  Freeze." 

Lloyd  did  not  answer.  This  case  of  Harriet  Freeze  was  one 
that  the  nurses  of  the  house  had  never  forgotten  and  would  never 
forgive.  Miss  Freeze,  a  young  Englishwoman,  newly  graduated, 
suddenly  called  upon  to  nurse  &  patient  stricken  with  smallpox, 
had  flinched  and  had  been  found  wanting  at  the  crucial  moment, 
had  discovered  an  excuse  for  leaving  her  post,  having  once  accepted 
it.  It  was  cowardice  in  the  presence  of  the  Enemy.  Anything 
could  have  been  forgiven  but  that.  On  the  girl's  return  to  the 


A  Man's  Woman  313 

agency  nothing  was  said,  no  action  taken,  but  for  all  that  she  was 
none  the  less  expelled  dishonorably  from  the  midst  of  her  com 
panions.  Nothing  could  have  been  stronger  than  the  esprit  de  corps 
of  this  group  of  young  women,  whose  lives  were  devoted  to  an 
unending  battle  with  disease. 

Lloyd  continued  the  overhauling  of  her  equipment,  and  began 
ruling  forms  for  nourishment  charts,  while  Miss  Douglass  impor 
tuned  her  to  subscribe  to  a  purse  the  nurses  were  making  up  for 
an  old  cripple  dying  of  cancer.  Lloyd  refused. 

"You  know  very  well,  Miss  Douglass,  that  I  only  give  to  charity 
through  the  association." 

"I  know,"  persisted  the  other,  "and  I  know  you  give  twice  as 
much  as  all  of  us  put  together,  but  with  this  poor  old  fellow  it's 
different.  We  know  all  about  him,  and  every  one  of  us  in  the  house 
has  given  something.  You  are  the  only  one  that  won't,  Lloyd,  and 
I  had  so  hoped  I  could  make  it  up  to  fifty  dollars." 

"'No." 

"We  need  only  three  dollars  now.  We  can  buy  that  little  cigar 
stand  for  him  for  fifty  dollars." 

"No." 

"And  you  won't  give  us  just  three  dollars?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  give  half  and  I'll  give  half,"  said  Miss  Douglass. 

"Do  you  think  it's  a  question  of  money  with  me?"  Lloyd  smiled. 

Indeed  this  was  a  poor  argument  with  which  to  move  Lloyd — 
Lloyd,  whose  railroad  stock  alone  brought  her  some  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  a  year. 

"Well,  no;  I  don't  mean  that,  of  course,  but,  Lloyd,  do  let  us 
have  three  dollars,  and  I  can  send  word  to  the  old  chap  this  very 
afternoon.  It  will  make  him  happy  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"No — no — no,  not  three  dollars,  nor  three  cents." 

Miss  Douglass  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  She  might  have  ex 
pected  that  she  could  not  move  Lloyd.  Once  her  mind  was  made 
up,  one  might  argue  with  her  till  one's  breath  failed.  She  shook 
her  head  at  Lloyd  and  exclaimed,  but  not  ill-naturedly : 

"Obstinate !     Obstinate !     Obstinate !" 

Lloyd  put  away  the  hypodermic  syringe  and  the  minim-glass 
in  their  places  in  the  bag,  added  a  little  ice-pick  to  its  contents,  and 
shut  the  bag  with  a  snap. 

"Now,"  she  announced,  "I'm  ready." 

When  Miss  Douglass  had  taken  herself  away  Lloyd  settled  her- 

N— III— NORRIS 


2 14  A  Man's  Woman 

self  in  the  place  she  had  vacated,  and,  stripping  the  wrappings  from 
the  books  and  magazines  she  had  bought,  began  to  turn  the  pages, 
looking  at  the  pictures.  But  her  interest  flagged.  She  tried  to 
read,  but  soon  cast  the  book  from  her  and  leaned  back  upon  the 
great  couch,  her  hands  clasped  behind  the  great  bronze-red  coils 
at  the  back  of  her  head,  her  dull-blue  eyes  fixed  and  vacant. 

For  hours  the  preceding  night  she  had  lain  broad  awake  in  her 
bed,  staring  at  the  shifting  shadow  pictures  that  the  electric  lights, 
shining  through  the  trees  down  in  the  square,  threw  upon  the  walls 
and  ceiling  of  her  room.  She  had  eaten  but  little  since  morning; 
a  growing  spirit  of  unrest  had  possessed  her  for  the  last  two  days. 
Now  it  had  reached  a  head.  She  could  no  longer  put  her  thoughts 
from  her. 

It  had  all  come  back  again  for  the  fiftieth  time,  for  the  hun 
dredth  time,  the  old,  intolerable  burden  of  anxiety  growing  heavier 
month  by  month,  year  by  year.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a  shape  of 
terror,  formless,  intangible,  and  invisible,  was  always  by  her,  now 
withdrawing,  now  advancing,  but  always  there ;  there  close  at  hand 
in  some  dark  corner  where  she  could  not  see,  ready  at  every  instant 
to  assume  a  terrible  and  all  too  well-known  form,  and  to  jump  at 
her  from  behind,  from  out  the  dark,  and  to  clutch  her  throat  with 
cold  fingers.  The  thing  played  with  her,  tormented  her ;  at  times  it 
all  but  disappeared;  at  times  she  believed  she  had  fought  it  from 
her  for  good,  and  then  she  would  wake  of  a  night,  in  the  stillness 
and  in  the  dark,  and  know  it  to  be  there  once  more — at  her  bedside 
— at  her  back — at  her  throat — till  her  heart  went  wild  with  fear, 
and  the  suspense  of  waiting  for  an  Enemy  that  would  not  strike, 
but  that  lurked  and  leered  in  dark  corners,  wrung  from  her  a  sup 
pressed  cry  of  anguish  and  exasperation,  and  drove  her  from  her 
sleep  with  streaming  eyes  and  tight-shut  hands  and  wordless 
prayers. 

For  a  few  moments  Lloyd  lay  back  upon  the  couch,  then  re 
gained  her  feet  with  a  brusque  harassed  movement  of  head  and 
shoulders. 

"Ah,  no,"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath,  "it  is  too  dreadful." 

She  tried  to  find  diversion  in  her  room,  rearranging  the  few 
ornaments,  winding  the  clock  that  struck  ships'  bells  instead  of 
hours,  and  turning  the  wicks  of  the  old  Empire  lamps  that  hung  in 
brass  brackets  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace.  Lloyd,  after  building 
the  agency,  had  felt  no  scruple  in  choosing  the  best  room  in  the 
house  and  furnishing  it  according  to  her  taste.  Her  room  was 


A  Man's  Woman  315 

beautiful,  but  very  simple  in  its  appointments.  There  were  great 
flat  wall-spaces  unspoiled  by  bric-a-brac,  the  floor  marquetry,  with 
but  few  rugs.  The  fireplace  and  its  appurtenances  were  of  brass; 
her  writing-desk,  a  huge  affair,  of  ancient  and  almost  black  San 
Domingo  mahogany. 

But  soon  she  wearied  of  the  small  business  of  pottering  about 
her  clock  and  lamps,  and,  turning  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and, 
leaning  upon  her  elbows,  looked  down  into  the  square. 

By  now  the  thunderstorm  was  gone,  like  the  withdrawal  of  a 
dark  curtain;  the  sun  was  out  again  over  the  city.  The  square, 
deserted  but  half  an  hour  ago,  was  reinvaded  with  its  little  peo 
ple  of  nursemaids,  gray-coated  policemen,  and  loungers  reading 
their  papers  on  the  benches  near  the  fountain.  The  elms  still 
dripped,  their  wet  leaves  glistening  again  to  the  sun.  There  was  a 
delicious  smell  in  the  air — a  smell  of  warm,  wet  grass,  of  leaves 
and  drenched  bark  from  the  trees.  On  the  far  side  of  the  square, 
seen  at  intervals  in  the  spaces  between  the  foliage,  a  passing  truck 
painted  vermilion  set  a  brisk  note  of  color  in  the  scene.  A  news 
boy  appeared  chanting  the  evening  editions.  On  a  sudden  and 
from  somewhere  close  at  hand  an  unseen  hand-piano  broke  out  into 
a  gay,  jangling  quickstep,  marking  the  time  with  delightful  pre 
cision. 

A  carriage,  its  fine  lacquered  flanks  gleaming  in  the  sunlight, 
rolled  through  the  square,  on  its  way,  no  doubt,  to  the  very  fashion 
able  quarter  of  the  city  just  beyond.  Lloyd  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
girl  leaning  back  in  its  cushions,  a  girl  of  her  own  age,  with  whom 
she  had  some  slight  acquaintance.  For  a  moment  Lloyd,  ridden 
with  her  terrors,  asked  herself  if  this  girl,  with  no  capabilities  for 
either  great  happiness  or  great  sorrow,  were  not  perhaps,  after  all, 
happier  than  she.  But  she  recoiled  instantly,  murmuring  to  herself 
with  a  certain  fierce  energy. 

"No,  no;  after  all,  I  have  lived." 

And  how  had  she  lived?  For  the  moment  Lloyd  was  wiling  to 
compare  herself  with  the  girl  in  the  landau.  Swiftly  she  ran  over 
her  own  life  from  the  time  when  left  an  orphan ;  in  the  year  of  her 
majority  she  had  become  her  own  mistress  and  the  mistress  of  the 
Searight  estate.  But  even  at  that  time  she  had  long  since  broken 
away  from  the  conventional  world  she  had  known.  Lloyd  was  a 
nurse  in  the  great  St.  Luke's  Hospital  even  then,  had  been  a  pro 
bationer  there  at  the  time  of  her  mother's  death,  six  months  before. 
She  had  always  been  ambitious,  but  vaguely  so,  having  no  deter- 


ot6  A  Man's  Woman 

mined  object  in  view.  She  recalled  how  at  that  time  she  knew  only 
that  she  was  in  love  with  her  work,  her  chosen  profession,  and  was 
accounted  the  best  operating  nurse  in  the  ward. 

She  remembered,  too,  the  various  steps  of  her  advancement,  the 
positions  she  had  occupied;  probationer  first,  then  full  member  of 
the  active  corps,  next  operating  nurse,  then  ward  manager,  and, 
after  her  graduation,  head  nurse  of  ward  four,  where  the  maternity 
cases  were  treated.  Then  had  come  the  time  when  she  had  left  the 
hospital  and  practiced  private  nursing  by  herself,  and  at  last,  not 
so  long  ago,  the  day  when  her  Idea  had  so  abruptly  occurred  to 
her;  when  her  ambition,  no  longer  vague,  no  longer  personal,  had 
crystallized  and  taken  shape ;  when  she  had  discovered  a  use  for  her 
money  and  had  built  and  founded  the  house  on  Calumet  Square. 
For  a  time  she  had  been  the  superintendent  of  nurses  here,  until  her 
own  theories  and  ideas  had  obtained  and  prevailed  in  its  manage 
ment.  Then,  her  work  fairly  started,  she  had  resigned  her  position 
to  an  older  woman,  and  had  taken  her  place  in  the  rank  and  file  of 
the  nurses  themselves.  She  wished  to  be  one  of  them,  living  the 
same  life,  subject  to  the  same  rigorous  discipline,  and  to  that  end 
she  had  never  allowed  it  to  be  known  that  she  was  the  founder  of 
the  house.  The  other  nurses  knew  that  she  was  very  rich,  very 
independent  and  self-reliant,  but  that  was  all.  Lloyd  did  not  know 
and  cared  very  little  how  they  explained  the  origin  and  support  of 
the  agency. 

Lloyd  was  animated  by  no  great  philanthropy,  no  vast  love  of 
humanity  in  her  work;  only  she  wanted,  with  all  her  soul  she 
wanted,  to  count  in  the  general  economy  of  things;  to  choose  a 
work  and  do  it;  to  help  on,  donner  un  coup  d'epaule;  and  this, 
supported  by  her  own  stubborn  energy  and  her  immense  wealth, 
she  felt  that  she  was  doing.  To  do  things  had  become  her  creed; 
to  do  things,  not  to  think  them ;  to  do  things,  not  to  talk  them ;  to  do 
things,  not  to  read  them.  No  matter  how  lofty  the  thoughts,  how 
brilliant  the  talk,  how  beautiful  the  literature — for  her,  first,  last,  and 
always,  were  acts,  acts,  acts — concrete,  substantial,  material  acts. 
The  greatest  and  happiest  day  of  her  life  had  been  when  at  last  she 
laid  her  bare  hand  upon  the  rough,  hard  stone  of  the  house  in  the 
square  and  looked  up  at  the  fagade,  her  dull-blue  eyes  flashing  with 
the  light  that  so  rarely  came  to  them,  while  she  murmured  between 
her  teeth 

"I_Hdid— this." 

As  she  recalled  this  moment  now,  leaning  upon  her  elbows,  look- 


A  Man's  Woman  317 

ing  down  upon  the  trees  and  grass  and  asphalt  of  the  square,  and 
upon  a  receding  landau,  a  wave  of  a  certain  natural  pride  in  her 
strength,  the  satisfaction  of  attainment,  came  to  her.  Ah !  she  was 
better  than  other  women ;  ah !  she  was  stronger  than  other  women ; 
she  was  carrying  out  a  splendid  work.  She  straightened  herself  to 
her  full  height  abruptly,  stretching  her  outspread  hands  vaguely  to 
the  sunlight,  to  the  city,  to  the  world,  to  the  great  engine  of  life, 
whose  lever  she  could  grasp  and  could  control,  smiling  proudly, 
almost  insolently,  in  the  consciousness  of  her  strength,  the  fine  stead 
fastness  of  her  purpose.  Then  all  at  once  the  smile  was  struck  from 
her  lips,  the  stiffness  of  her  poise  suddenly  relaxed.  There,  there 
it  was  again,  the  terror,  the  dreadful  fear  she  dared  not  name,  back 
in  its  place  once  more — at  her  side,  at  her  shoulder,  at  her  throat, 
ready  to  clutch  at  her  from  out  the  dark. 

She  wheeled  from  the  window,  from  the  sunlight,  her  hands 
Clasped  before  her  trembling  lips,  the  tears  brimming  her  dull-blue 
eyes.  For  forty-eight  hours  she  had  fought  this  from  her.  But  now 
it  was  no  longer  to  be  resisted. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried  half  aloud.  "I  am  no  better,  no  stronger 
than  the  others.  What  does  it  all  amount  to  when  I  know  that, 
after  all,  I  am  just  a  woman — just  a  woman  whose  heart  is  slowly 
breaking?" 

But  there  was  an  interruption.  Rownie  had  knocked  twice  at 
her  door  before  Lloyd  had  heard  her.  When  Lloyd  had  opened  the 
door  the  girl  handed  her  a  card  with  an  address  written  on  it  in 
the  superintendent's  hand. 

"This  here  jus'  now  come  in  f'om  Dr.  Street,  Miss  Lloyd,"  said 
Rownie;  "Miss  Bergyn"  (this  was  the  superintendent  nurse)  "ast 
me  to  give  it  to  you." 

It  was  a  call  to  an  address  that  seemed  familiar  to  Lloyd  at 
first;  but  she  did  not  stop  at  that  moment  to  reflect.  Her  stable 
telephone  hung  against  the  wall  of  the  closet.  She  rang  for  Lewis> 
and  while  waiting  for  him  to  get  around  dressed  for  the  street. 

For  the  moment,  at  the  prospect  of  action,  even  her  haunting 
fear  drew  off  and  stood  away  from  her.  She  was  absorbed  in  her 
work  upon  the  instant — alert,  watchful,  self-reliant.  What  the  case 
was  she  could  only  surmise.  How  long  she  would  be  away  she  had 
no  means  of  knowing — a  week,  a  month,  a  year,  she  could  not  tell. 
But  she  was  ready  for  any  contingency.  Usually  the  doctors  in 
formed  the  nurses  as  to  the  nature  of  the  case  at  the  time  of  send 
ing  for  them,  but  Dr.  Street  had  not  done  so  now. 


318  A  Man's  Woman 

However,  Rownie  called  up  to  her  that  her  coupe  was  at  the 
door.  Lloyd  caught  up  her  satchels  and  ran  down  the  stairs,  crying 
good-by  to  Miss  Douglass,  whom  she  saw  at  the  further  end  of 
the  hall.  In  the  hallway  by  the  vestibule  she  changed  the  slide  bear 
ing  her  name  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  roster. 

''How  about  your  mail?"  cried  Miss  Douglass  after  her. 

"Keep  it  here  for  me  until  I  see  how  long  I'm  to  be  away,"  an 
swered  Lloyd,  her  hand  upon  the  knob.  "I'll  let  you  know." 

Lewis  had  put  Rox  in  the  shafts,  and  while  the  coupe  spun  over 
the  asphalt  at  a  smart  clip  Lloyd  tried  to  remember  where  she  had 
heard  of  the  address  before.  Suddenly  she  snapped  her  fingers; 
she  knew  the  case,  had  even  been  assigned  to  it  some  eight  months 
before. 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  it — Campbell — wife  dead — Lafayette  Avenue — 
little  daughter,  Hattie — hip  disease — hopeless — poor  little  baby." 

Arriving  at  the  house,  Lloyd  found  the  surgeon,  Dr.  Street,  and 
Mr.  Campbell,  who  was  a  widower,  waiting  for  her  in  a  small  draw 
ing-room  off  the  library.  The  surgeon  was  genuinely  surprised  and 
delighted  to  see  her.  Most  of  the  doctors  of  the  city  knew  Lloyd 
for  the  best  trained  nurse  in  the  hospitals. 

"Oh  it's  you,  Miss  Searight ;  good  enough !"  The  surgeon  in 
troduced  her  to  the  little  patient's  father,  adding:  "If  any  one  can 
pull  us  through,  Campbell,  it  will  be  Miss  Searight." 

The  surgeon  and  nurse  began  to  discuss  the  case. 

"I  think  you  know  it  already,  don't  you,  Miss  Searight?"  said 
the  surgeon.  "You  took  care  of  it  a  while  last  winter.  Well,  there 
was  a  little  improvement  in  the  spring,  not  so  much  pain,  but  that 
in  itself  is  a  bad  sign.  We  have  done  what  we  could,  Farnham  and 
I.  But  it  don't  yield  to  treatment ;  you  know  how  these  things  are 
— stubborn.  We  made  a  preliminary  examination  yesterday.  Si 
nuses  have  occurred,  and  the  probe  leads  down  to  nothing  but  dead 
bone.  Farnham  and  I  had  a  consultation  this  morning.  We  must 
play  our  last  card.  I  shall  exsect  the  joint  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Campbell  drew  in  his  breath  and  held  it  for  a  moment,  look 
ing  out  of  the  window. 

Very  attentive,  Loyd  merely  nodded  her  head,  murmuring: 

"I  understand." 

When  Dr.  Street  had  gone  Lloyd  immediately  set  to  work.  The 
operation  was  to  take  place  at  noon  the  following  day,  and  she  fore 
saw  there  would  be  no  sleep  for  her  that  night.  Street  had  left 
everything  to  her,  even  to  the  sterilizing  of  his  instruments.  Until 


A  Man's  Woman  319 

daylight  the  following  morning  Lloyd  came  and  went  about  the 
house  with  an  untiring  energy,  yet  with  the  silence  of  a  swiftly 
moving  shadow,  getting  together  the  things  needed  for  the  opera 
tion — strychnia  tablets,  absorbent  cotton,  the  rubber  tubing  for  the 
tourniquet,  bandages,  salt,  and  the  like-^-and  preparing  the  little 
chamber  adjoining  the  sick-room  as  an  operating-room. 

The  little  patient  herself,  Hattie,  hardly  into  her  teens,  remem 
bered  Lloyd  at  once.  Before  she  went  to  sleep  Lloyd  contrived  to 
spend  an  hour  in  the  sick-room  with  her,  told  her  as  much  as  was 
necessary  of  what  was  contemplated,  and,  by  her  cheery  talk,  her 
gentleness  and  sympathy,  inspired  the  little  girl  with  a  certain  sense 
of  confidence  and  trust  in  her. 

"But— but — but  just  how  bad  will  it  htirt,  Miss  Searight?"  in 
quired  Hattie,  looking  at  her,  wide-eyed  and  serious. 

"Dear,  it  won't  hurt  you  at  all;  just  two  or  three  breaths  of  the 
ether  and  you  will  be  sound  asleep.  When  you  wake  tip  it  will  be 
all  over  and  you  will  be  well." 

Lloyd  made  the  ether  cone  from  a  stiff  towel,  and  set  it  on  Hat- 
tie's  dressing-table.  Last  of  all  and  just  before  the  operation  the 
gauze  sponges  occupied  her  attention.  The  daytime  brought  her  no 
rest.  Hattie  was  not  to  have  any  breakfast,  but  toward  the  middle 
of  the  forenoon  Lloyd  gave  her  a  stimulating  enema  of  whiskey  and 
water,  following  it  about  an  hour  later  by  a  hundredth  grain  of 
atropia.  She  braided  the  little  girl's  hair  in  two  long  plaits  so  that 
her  head  would  rest  squarely  and  flatly  upon  the  pillow.  Hattie 
herself  was  now  ready  for  the  surgeon. 

Now  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  Lloyd  could  but  wait. 
She  took  her  place  at  the  bedside  and  tried  to  talk  as  lightly  as  was 
possible  to  her  patient.  But  now  there  was  a  pause  in  the  round 
of  action.  Her  mind,  no  longer  keenly  intent  upon  the  immediate 
necessities  of  the  moment,  began  to  hark  back  again  to  the  one  great 
haunting  fear  that  for  so  long  had  overshadowed  it.  Even  while 
she  exerted  herself  to  be  cheerful  and  watched  for  the  smiles  on 
Hattie's  face  her  hands  twisted  tight  and  tighter  under  the  folds 
of  her  blouse,  and  some  second  self  within  her  seemed  to  say : 

"Suppose,  suppose  it  should  come,  this  thing  I  dread  but  dare 
not  name,  what  then,  what  then?  Should  I  not  expect  it?  Is  it 
not  almost  a  certainty?  Have  I  not  been  merely  deceiving  myself 
with  the  forlornest  hopes?  Is  it  not  the  most  reasonable  course 
to  expect  the  worst?  Do  not  all  indications  point  that  way?  Has 
not  my  whole  life  been  shaped  to  this  end?  Was  not  this  calamity, 


A  Man's  Woman 

this  mighty  sorrow,  prepared  for  me  even  before  I  was  born  ?  And 
one  can  do  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  nothing,  but  wait  and  hope 
and  fear,  and  eat  out  one's  heart  with  longing." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Instead  of  calling  to  enter 
Lloyd  went  to  it  softly  and  opened  it  a  few  inches.  Mr.  Campbell 
was  there. 

"They've  come — Street  and  the  assistant." 

Lloyd  heard  a  murmur  of  voices  in  the  hall  below  and  the  clos 
ing  of  the  front  door. 

Farnham  and  Street  went  at  once  to  the  operating-room  to 
make  their  hands  and  wrists  aseptic.  Campbell  had  gone  down 
stairs  to  his  smoking-room.  It  had  been  decided — though  contrary 
to  custom — that  Lloyd  should  administer  the  anaesthetic. 

At  length  Street  tapped  with  the  handle  of  a  scalpel  on  the  door 
to  say  that  he  was  ready. 

"Now,  dear,"  said  Lloyd,  turning  to  Hattie,  and  picking  up  the 
ether  cone. 

But  the  little  girl's  courage  suddenly  failed  her.  She  began  to 
plead  in  a  low  voice  choked  with  tears.  Her  supplications  were 
pitiful;  but  Lloyd,  once  more  intent  upon  her  work,  every  faculty 
and  thought  concentrated  upon  what  must  be  done,  did  not  tem 
porize  an  instant.  Quietly  she  gathered  Hattie's  frail  wrists  in  the 
grip  of  one  strong  palm,  and  held  the  cone  to  her  face  until  she 
had  passed  off  with  a  long  sigh.  She  picked  her  up  lightly,  car 
ried  her  into  the  next  room,  and  laid  her  upon  the  operating-table. 
At  the  last  moment  Lloyd  had  busied  herself  with  the  preparation 
of  her  own  person.  Over  her  dress  she  passed  her  hospital  blouse, 
which  had  been  under  a  dry  heat  for  hours.  She  rolled  her  sleeves 
up  from  her  strong  white  forearms  with  their  thick  wrists  and  fine 
blue  veining,  and  for  upward  of  ten  minutes  scrubbed  them  with 
a  new  nail-brush  in  water  as  hot  as  she  could  bear  it.  After  this 
she  let  her  hands  and  forearms  lie  in  the  permanganate  of  potash 
solution  till  they  were  brown  to  the  elbow,  then  washed  away  the 
stain  in  the  oxalic-acid  solution  and  in  sterilized  hot  water.  Street 
and  Farnham,  wearing  their  sterilized  gowns  and  gloves,  took  their 
places.  There  was  no  conversation.  The  only  sounds  were  an 
occasional  sigh  from  the  patient,  a  direction  given  in  a  low  tone, 
and,  at  intervals,  the  click  of  the  knives  and  scalpel.  From  outside 
the  window  came  the  persistent  chirping  of  a  band  of  sparrows. 

Promptly  the  operation  was  begun ;  there  was  no  delay,  no  hesi 
tation;  what  there  was  to  be  done  had  been  carefully  planned  be- 


A  Man's  Woman  321 

forehand,  even  to  the  minutest  details.  Street,  a  master  of  his  pro 
fession,  thoroughly  familiar  with  every  difficulty  that  might  present 
itself  during  the  course  of  the  work  in  hand,  foreseeing  every  con 
tingency,  prepared  for  every  emergency,  calm,  watchful,  self-con 
tained,  set  about  the  exsecting  of  the  joint  with  no  trace  of  com 
punction,  no  embarrassment,  no  misgiving.  His  assistants,  as  well 
as  he  himself,  knew  that  life  or  death  hung  upon  the  issue  of  the 
next  ten  minutes.  Upon  Street  alone  devolved  the  life  of  the  little 
girl.  A  second's  hesitation  at  the  wrong  stage  of  the  operation,  a 
slip  of  bistoury  or  scalpel,  a  tremor  of  the  wrist,  a  single  instant's 
clumsiness  of  the  fingers,  and  the  Enemy — watching  for  every 
chance,  intent  for  every  momentarily  opened  chink  or  cranny  where 
in  he  could  thrust  his  lean  fingers — entered  the  frail  tenement  with 
a  leap,  a  rushing,  headlong  spring  that  jarred  the  house  of  life  to 
its  foundations.  Lowering  close  over  her  head  Lloyd  felt  the 
shadow  of  his  approach.  He  had  arrived  there  in  that  common 
place  little  room,  with  its  commonplace  accessories,  its  ornaments, 
that  suddenly  seemed  so  trivial,  so  impertinent — the  stopped  French 
clock,  with  its  simpering,  gilded  cupids,  on  the  mantelpiece;  the 
photograph  of  a  number  of  picnickers  "grouped"  on  a  hotel  piazza 
gazing  with  monolithic  cheerfulness  at  this  grim  business,  this 
struggle  of  the  two  world  forces,  this  crisis  in  a  life. 

Then  abruptly  the  operation  was  over. 

The  nurse  and  surgeons  eased  their  positions  immediately,  draw 
ing,  long  breaths.  They  began  to  talk,  commenting  upon  the  oper 
ation,  and  Lloyd,  intensely  interested,  asked  Street  why  he  had, 
contrary  to  her  expectations,  removed  the  bone  above  the  lesser 
trochanter.  He  smiled,  delighted  at  her  intelligence. 

"It's  better  than  cutting  through  the  neck,  Miss  Searight,"  he 
told  her.  "If  I  had  gone  through  the  neck,  don't  you  see,  the  tro 
chanter  major  would  come  over  the  hole  and  prevent  the  dis 
charges." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see,  of  course,"  assented  Lloyd. 

The  incision  was  sewn  up,  and  when  all  was  over  Lloyd  carried 
Hattie  back  to  the  bed  in  the  next  room.  Slowly  the  little  girl 
regained  consciousness,  and  Lloyd  began  to  regard  her  once  more 
as  a  human  being.  During  the  operation  she  had  forgotten  the  very 
existence  of  Hattie  Campbell,  a  little  girl  she  knew.  She  had  only 
seen  a  bit  of  mechanism  out  of  order  and  in  the  hands  of  a  repairer. 
It  was  always  so  with  Lloyd.  Her  charges  were  not  infrequently 
persons  whom  she  knew,  often  intimately,  but  during  the  time  of 


A  Man's  Woman 

their  sickness  their  personalities  vanished  for  the  trained  nurse; 
she  saw  only  the  "case,"  only  the  mechanism,  only  the  deranged 
clockwork  in  imminent  danger  of  running  down. 

But  the  danger  was  by  no  means  over.  The  operation  had  been 
near  the  trunk.  There  had  been  considerable  loss  of  blood,  and  the 
child's  power  of  resistance  had  been  weakened  by  long  periods  of 
suffering.  Lloyd  feared  that  the  shock  might  prove  too  great. 
Farnham  departed,  but  for  a  little  while  the  surgeon  remained  with 
Lloyd  to  watch  the  symptoms.  At  length,  however,  he  too,  pressed 
for  time,  and  expected  at  one  of  the  larger  hospitals  of  the  city, 
went  away,  leaving  directions  for  Lloyd  to  telephone  him  in  case 
of  the  slightest  change.  At  this  hour,  late  in  the  afternoon,  there 
were  no  indications  that  the  little  girl  would  not  recover  from  the 
shock.  Street  believed  she  would  rally  and  ultimately  regain  her 
health. 

"But,"  he  told  Lloyd  as  he  bade  her  good-by,  "I  don't  need  to 
impress  upon  you  the  need  of  care  and  the  greatest  vigilance ;  abso 
lute  rest  is  the  only  thing;  she  must  see  nobody,  not  even  her 
father.  The  whole  system  is  numbed  and  deadened  just  yet,  but 
there  will  be  a  change  either  for  better  or  worse  some  time  to-night." 

For  thirty-six  hours  Lloyd  had  not  [closed  an  eye,  but  of  that 
she  had  no  thought.  Her  supper  was  sent  up  to  her,  and  she  pre 
pared  herself  for  her  night's  watch.  She  gave  the  child  such  nour 
ishment  as  she  believed  she  could  stand,  and  from  time  to  time  took 
her  pulse,  making  records  of  it  upon  her  chart  for  the  surgeon's  in 
spection  later  on.  At  intervals  she  took  Hattie's  temperature,  plac 
ing  the  clinical  thermometer  in  the  armpit.  Toward  nine  in  the 
evening,  while  she  was  doing  this  for  the  third  time  within  the 
hour,  one  of  the  house  servants  came  to  the  room  to  inform  her  that 
she  was  wanted  on  the  telephone.  Lloyd  hesitated,  unwilling  to 
leave  Hattie-  for  an  instant.  However,  the  telephone  was  close  at 
hand,  and  it  was  quite  possible  that  Dr.  Street  had  rung  her  up  to 
ask  for  news. 

But  it  was  the  agency  that  had  called,  and  Miss  Douglass  in 
formed  her  that  a  telegram  had  arrived  there  for  her  a  few  mo 
ments  before.  Should  she  hold  it  or  send  it  to  her  by  Rownie? 
Lloyd  reflected  a  moment. 

"Oh — open  it  and  read  it  to  me,"  she  said.  "It's  a  call,  isn't  it  ? 
— or — no;  send  it  here  by  Rownie,  and  send  my  hospital  slippers 
with  her,  the  ones  without  heels.  But  don't  ring  up  again  to-night  ; 
we're  expecting  a  crisis  almost  any  moment." 


A  Man's  Woman  323 

Lloyd  returned  to  the  sick-room,  sent  away  the  servant,  and 
once  more  settled  herself  for  the  night.  Hattie  had  roused  for 
a  moment. 

"Am  I  going  to  get  well,  am  I  going  to  get  well,  Miss  Sea- 
right?" 

Lloyd  put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  nodding  her  head,  and  Hattie 
closed  her  eyes  again  with  a  long  breath.  A  certain  great  tender 
ness  and  compassion  for  the  little  girl  grew  big  in  Lloyd's  heart. 
To  herself  she  said: 

"God  helping  me,  you  shall  get  well.  They  believe  in  me,  these 
people — 'If  any  one  could  pull  us  through  it  would  be  Miss  Sea- 
right.'  We  will  'pull  through/  yes,  for  I'll  do  it." 

The  night  closed  down,  dark  and  still  and  very  hot.  Lloyd, 
regulating  the  sick-room's  ventilation,  opened  one  of  the  windows 
from  the  top.  The  noises  of  the  city,  steadily  decreasing  as  the 
hours  passed,  reached  her  ears  in  a  subdued,  droning  murmur.  On 
her  bed,  that  had  for  so  long  been  her  bed  of  pain,  Hattie  lay  with 
closed  eyes,  inert,  motionless,  hardly  seeming  to  breathe,  her  life  in 
the  balance;  unhappy  little  invalid,  wasted  with  suffering,  with 
drawn,  pinched  face  and  bloodless  lips,  and  at  her  side  Lloyd,  her 
dull-blue  eyes  never  leaving  her  patient's  face,  alert  and  vigilant, 
despite  her  long  wakefulness,  her  great  bronze-red  flame  of  hair 
rolling  from  her  forehead  and  temples,  the  sombre  glow  in  her  cheeks 
no  whit  diminished  by  her  day  of  fatigue,  of  responsibility  and  un 
tiring  activity. 

For  the  time  being  she  could  thrust  her  fear,  the  relentless  En 
emy  that  for  so  long  had  hung  upon  her  heels,  back  and  away  from 
her.  There  was  another  Enemy  now  to  fight — or  was  it  another — 
was  it  not  the  same  Enemy,  the  very  same,  whose  shadow  loomed 
across  that  sick-bed,  across  the  frail,  small  body  and  pale,  drawn 
face? 

With  her  pity  and  compassion  for  the  sick  child  there  arose  in 
Lloyd  a  certain  unreasoned,  intuitive  obstinacy,  a  banding  together 
of  all  her  powers  and  faculties  in  one  great  effort  at  resistance,  a 
steadfastness  under  great  stress,  a  stubbornness,  that  shut  its  ears 
and  eyes.  It  was  her  one  dominant  characteristic  rising  up,  strong 
and  insistent  the  instant  she  knew  herself  to  be  thwarted  in  her  de 
sires  or  checked  in  a  course  she  believed  to  be  right  and  good.  And 
now  as  she  felt  the  advance  of  the  Enemy  and  saw  the  shadow 
growing  darker  across  the  bed  her  obstinacy  hardened  like  tem 
pered  steel. 


324  A  Man's  Woman 

"No,"  she  murmured,  her  brows  leveled,  her  lips  compressed, 
"she  shall  not  die.  I  will  not  let  her  go." 

A  little  later,  perhaps  an  hour  after  midnight,  at  a  time  when 
she  believed  Hattie  to  be  asleep,  Lloyd,  watchful  as  ever,  noted  that 
her  cheeks  began  alternately  to  puff  out  and  contract  with  her 
breathing.  In  an  instant  the  nurse  was  on  her  feet.  She  knew  the 
meaning  of  this  sign.  Hattie  had  fainted  while  asleep.  Lloyd  took 
the  temperature.  It  was  falling  rapidly.  The  pulse  was  weak,  rapid, 
and  irregular.  It  seemed  impossible  for  Hattie  to  take  a  deep 
breath. 

Then  swiftly  the  expected  crisis  began  to  develop  itself.  Lloyd 
ordered  Street  to  be  sent  for,  but  only  as  a  matter  of  form.  Long 
before  he  could  arrive  the  issue  would  be  decided.  She  knew  that 
now  Hattie's  life  depended  on  herself  alone. 

"Now,"  she  murmured,  as  though  the  Enemy  she  fought  could 
hear  her,  "now  let  us  see  who  is  the  stronger.  You  or  I." 

Swiftly  and  gently  she  drew  the  bed  from  the  wall  and  raised 
its  foot,  propping  it  in  position  with  half  a  dozen  books.  Then, 
while  waiting  for  the  servants,  whom  she  had  despatched  for  hot 
blankets,  administered  a  hypodermic  injection  of  brandy. 

"We  will  pull  you  through,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  "we  will 
pull  you  through.  I  shall  not  let  you  go." 

The  Enemy  was  close  now,  and  the  fight  was  hand  to  hand. 
Lloyd  could  almost  feel,  physically,  actually,  feel  the  slow,  sullen, 
resistless  pull  that  little  by  little  was  dragging  Hattie's  life  from  her 
grip.  She  set  her  teeth,  holding  back  with  all  her  might,  bracing 
herself  against  the  strain,  refusing  with  all  her  inborn  stubbornness 
to  yield  her  position. 

"No — no,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  "you  shall  not  have  her.  I 
will  not  give  her  up;  you  shall  not  triumph  over  me." 

Campbell  was  in  the  room,  warned  by  the  ominous  coming  and 
going  of  hushed  footsteps. 

"What  is  the  use,  nurse?  It's  all  over.  Let  her  die  in  peace. 
It's  too  cruel;  let  her  die  in  peace." 

The  half-hour  passed,  then  the  hour.  Once  more  Lloyd  admin 
istered  hypodermically  the  second  dose  of  brandy.  Campbell,  un 
able  to  bear  the  sight,  had  withdrawn  to  the  adjoining  room,  where 
he  could  be  heard  pacing  the  floor.  From  time  to  time  he  came  back 
for  a  moment,  whispering: 

"Will  she  live,  nurse?  Will  she  live?  Shall  we  pull  her 
through  ?" 


A  Man's  Woman  325 

"I  don't  know,"  Lloyd  told  him.  "I  don't  know.  Wait.  Go 
back.  I  will  let  you  know." 

Another  fifteen  minutes  passed.  Lloyd  fancied  that  the  heart's 
action  was  growing  a  little  stronger.  A  great  stillness  had  settled 
over  the  house.  The  two  servants  waiting  Lloyd's  orders  in  the 
hall  outside  the  door  refrained  even  from  whispering.  From  the 
next  room  came  the  muffled  sound  of  pacing  footsteps,  hurried,  ir 
regular,  while  with  that  strange  perversity  which  seizes  upon  the 
senses  at  moments  when  they  are  more  than  usually  acute  Lloyd 
began  to  be  aware  of  a  vague,  unwonted  movement  in  the  city  itself, 
outside  there  behind  the  drawn  curtains  and  half-opened  window — 
a  faint,  uncertain  agitation,  a  trouble,  a  passing  ripple  on  the  still 
black  pool  of  the  night,  coming  and  going,  and  coming  again,  each 
time  a  little  more  insistent,  each  time  claiming  a  little  more  atten 
tion  and  notice.  It  was  about  half-past  three  o'clock.  But  the  Tit 
tle  patient's  temperature  was  rising — there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  The  lungs  expanded  wider  and  deeper.  Hattie's  breathing 
was  unmistakably  easier;  and  as  Lloyd  put  her  fingers  to  the  wrist 
she  could  hardly  keep  back  a  little  exultant  cry  as  she  felt  the 
pulse  throbbing  fuller,  a  little  slower,  a  little  more  regularly.  Now 
she  redoubled  her  attention.  Her  hold  upon  the  little  life  shut 
tighter;  her  power  of  resistance,  her  strength  of  purpose,  seemed 
to  be  suddenly  quadrupled.  She  could  imagine  the  Enemy  drawing 
off;  she  could  think  that  the  grip  of  cold  fingers  was  loosening. 

Slowly  the  crisis  passed  off,  slowly  the  reaction  began.  Hattie 
was  still  unconscious,  but  there  was  a  new  look  upon  her  face — a 
look  that  Lloyd  had  learned  to  know  from  long  experience,  an  in 
tangible  and  most  illusive  expression,  nothing,  something,  the  sign 
that  only  those  who  are  trained  to  search  for  "it  may  see  and  appre 
ciate — the  earliest  faint  flicker  after  the  passing  of  the  shadow. 

"Will  she  live,  will  she  live,  nurse?"  came  Mr.  Campbell's 
whisper  at  her  shoulder. 

"I  think — I  am  almost  sure — but  we  must  not  be  too  certain  yet. 
Still  there's  a  chance;  yes,  there's  a  chance." 

Campbell,  suddenly  gone  white,  put  out  his  hand  and  leaned  a 
moment  against  the  mantelpiece.  He  did  not  now  leave  the  room. 
The  door-bell  rang. 

"Dr.  Street,"  murmured  Lloyd. 

But  what  had  happened  in  the  city?  There  in  the  still  dark 
hours  of  that  hot  summer  night  an  event  of  national,  perhaps  even 
international,  importance  had  surely  transpired.  It  was  in  the  air — 


A  Man's  Woman 

a  sense  of  a  Great  Thing  come  suddenly  to  a  head  somewhere  in 
the  world.  Footsteps  sounded  rapidly  on  the  echoing  sidewalks. 
Here  and  there  a  street  door  opened.  From  corner  to  corner,  grow 
ing  swiftly  nearer,  came  the  cry  of  newsboys  chanting  extras.  A 
subdued  excitement  was  abroad,  finding  expression  in  a  vague  mur 
mur,  the  mingling  of  many  sounds  into  one  huge  note — a  note  that 
gradually  swelled  and  grew  louder  and  seemed  to  be  rising  from 
all  corners  of  the  city  at  once. 

There  was  a  step  at  the  sick-room  door.  Dr.  Street  ?  No,  Row- 
nie — Rownie  with  two  telegrams  for  Lloyd. 

Lloyd  took  them  from  her,  then  with  a  sharp,  brusque  move 
ment  of  her  head  and  suddenly  smitten  with  an  idea,  turned  from 
them  to  listen  to  the  low,  swelling  murmur  of  the  city.  These 
despatches — no,  they  were  no  "call"  for  her.  She  guessed  what 
they  might  be.  Why  had  they  come  to  her  now?  Why  was  there 
this  sense  of  some  great  tidings  in  the  wind?  The  same  tidings 
that  had  come  to  the  world  might  come  to  her — in  these  despatches. 
Might  it  not  be  so  ?  She  caught  her  breath  quickly.  The  terror,  the 
fearful  anxiety  that  had  haunted  and  oppressed  her  for  so  long, 
was  it  to  be  lifted  now  at  last  ?  The  Enemy  that  lurked  in  the  dark 
corners,  ever  ready  to  clutch  her,  was  it  to  be  driven  back  and  away 
from  her  forever?  She  dared  not  hope  for  it.  But  something  was 
coming  to  her ;  she  knew  it,  she  felt  it ;  something  was  preparing  for 
her,  coming  to  her  swifter  with  every  second — coming,  coming, 
coming  from  out  the  north.  She  saw  Dr.  Street  in  the  room,  though 
how  and  when  he  had  arrived  she  could  not  afterward  recall.  Her 
mind  was  all  alert,  intent  upon  other  things,  listening,  waiting.  The 
surgeon  had  been  leaning  over  the  bed.  Suddenly  he  straightened 
up,  saying  aloud  to  Campbell : 

"Good,  good,  we're  safe.    We  have  pulled  through." 

Lloyd  tore  open  her  telegrams.  One  was  signed  "Bennett,"  the 
other  "Ferriss." 

"Thank  God!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Campbell. 

"Oh,"  cried  Lloyd,  a  great  sob  shaking  her  from  head  to  heel, 
a  smile  of  infinite  happiness  flashing  from  her  face.  "Oh — yes, 
thank  God,  we — we  have  pulled  through." 

"Am  I  going  to  get  well,  am  I  going  to  get  well,  Miss  Searight?" 
Hattie,  once  more  conscious,  raised  her  voice  weak  and  faint. 

Lloyd  was  on  her  knees  beside  her,  her  head  bent  over  her. 

"Hush;  yes,  dear,  you  are  safe."  Then  the  royal  bronze-red 
hair  bent  lower  still.  The  dull-blue  eyes  were  streaming  now,  the 


A  Man's  Woman 


327 


voice  one  low  quiver  of  sobs.  Tenderly,  gently  Lloyd  put  an  arm 
about  the  child,  her  head  bending  lower  and  lower.  Her  cheek 
touched  Hattie's.  For  a  moment  the  little  girl,  frail,  worn,  piti 
fully  wasted,  and  the  strong,  vigorous  woman,  with  her  imperious 
will  and  indomitable  purpose,  rested  their  heads  upon  the  same  pil 
low,  both  broken  with  suffering,  the  one  of  the  body,  the  other  of 
the  mind. 

"Safe;  yes,  dear,  safe,"  whispered  Lloyd,  her  face  all  but  hid 
den.  "Safe,  safe,  and  saved  to  me.  Oh,  dearest  of  all  the  world !" 

And  then  to  her  ears  the  murmur  of  .the  city  seemed  to  leap 
suddenly  to  articulate  words,  the  clanging  thunder  of  the  entire 
nation — the  whole  round  world  thrilling  with  this  great  news  that 
had  come  to  it  from  out  the  north  in  the  small  hours  of  this  hot 
summer's  night.  And  the  chanting  cries  of  the  street  rolled  to  her 
like  the  tremendous  diapason  of  a  gigantic  organ : 

"Rescued,  rescued,  rescued!" 


IV 

ON  the  day  that  Lloyd  returned  to  the  house  on  Calumet  Square 
(Hattie's  recovery  being  long  since  assured),  and  while  she  was  un 
packing  he"r  valise  and  settling  herself  again  in  her  room,  a  mes 
senger  boy  brought  her  a  note. 

"Have  just  arrived  in  the  city.     When  may  I  see  you? 

"BENNETT." 

News  of  Ward  Bennett  and  of  Richard  Ferrjss  had  not  been 
wanting  during  the  past  fortnight  or  so.  Their  names  and  that  of 
the  ship  herself,  even  the  names  of  Adler,  Hansen,  Clarke,  and 
Dennison,  even  Muck  Tu,  even  that  of  Kamiska,  the  one  surviving 
dog,  filled  the  mouths  and  minds  of  men  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
thing  else. 

The  return  of  the  expedition  after  its  long  imprisonment  in  the 
ice  and  at  a  time  when  all  hope  of  its  safety  had  been  abandoned 
was  one  of  the  great  events  of  that  year.  The  fact  that  the  ex 
pedition  had  failed  to  reach  the  Pole,  or  to  attain  any  unusually  high 
latitude,  was  forgotten  or  ignored.  Nothing  was  remembered  but 
the  masterly  retreat  toward  Kolyuchin  Bay,  the  wonderful  march 
over  the  ice,  the  indomitable  courage,  unshaken  by  hardship,  perils, 


328  A  Man's  Woman 

obstacles,  and  privations  almost  beyond  imagination.  All  this,  to 
gether  with  a  multitude  of  details,  some  of  them  palpably  fictitious, 
the  press  of  the  city  where  Bennett  and  Ferriss  both  had  their 
homes  published  and  republished  and  published  again  and  again. 
News  of  the  men,  their  whereabouts  and  intentions,  invaded  the 
ick-room— where  Lloyd  watched  over  the  convalescence  of  her  little 
parent — by  the  very  chinks  of  the  windows. 

Lloyd  learned  how  the  ship  had  been  "nipped";  how,  after  in 
conceivable  toil,  the  members  of  the  expedition  had  gained  the  land ; 
how  they  had  marched  southward  toward  the  Chuckch  settlements ; 
how,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  the  survivors,  exhausted  and  starving, 
had  been  rescued  by  the  steam  whalers ;  how  these  whalers  them 
selves  had  been  caught  in  the  ice,  and  how  the  survivors  of  the 
"Freja"  had  been  obliged  to  spend  another  winter  in  the  Arctic. 
She  learned  the  details  of  their  final  return.  In  the  quiet,  darkened 
room  where  Hattie  lay  she  heard  from  without  the  echo  of  the 
thunder  of  the  nations;  she  saw  how  the  figure  of  Bennett  towered 
suddenly  magnificent  in  the  world;  how  that  the  people  were 
brusquely  made  aware  of  a  new  hero.  She  learned  that  honors 
came  thronging  about  him  unsought ;  that  the  King  of  the  Belgians 
had  conferred  a  decoration  upon  him;  that  the  geographical  so 
cieties  of  continental  Europe  had  elected  him  to  honorary  member 
ship  ;  that  the  President  and  the  Secretary  of  War  had  sent  telegrams 
of  congratulations. 

"And  what  does  he  do,"  she  murmured,  "the  first  of  all  upon 
his  return?  Asks  to  see  me — me!" 

She  sent  an  answer  to  his  note  by  the  same  boy  who  brought 
it,  naming  the  following  afternoon,  explaining  that  two  days  later 
she  expected  to  go  into  the  country  to  a  little  town  called  Bannister 
to  take  her  annual  fortnight's  vacation. 

"But  what  of— of  the  other?"  she  murmured  as  she  stood  at  the 
window  of  her  room  watching  the  messenger  boy  bicycling  across 
the  square.  "Why  does  not  he — he,  too — ?" 

She  put  her  chin  in  the  air  and  turned  about,  looking  ab 
stractedly  at  the  rugs  on  the  parquetry. 

Lloyd's  vacation  had  really  begun  two  days  before.  Her  name 
was  off  the  roster  of  the  house,  and  till  the  end  of  the  month  her 
time  was  her  own.  The  afternoon  was  hot  and  very  still.  Even  in 
the  cool,  stone-built  agency,  with  its  windows  wide  and  heavily 
shaded  with  awnings,  the  heat  was  oppressive.  For  a  long  time 
Lloyd  had  been  shut  away  from  fresh  air  and  the  sun,  and  now  she 


A  Man's  Woman  329 

suddenly  decided  to  drive  out  in  the  city's  park.  She  rang  up  her 
stable  and  ordered  Lewis  to  put  her  ponies  to  her  phaeton. 

She  spent  a  delightful  two  hours  in  the  great  park,  losing  herself 
in  its  furthest,  shadiest,  and  most  unfrequented  corners.  She  drove 
herself,  and  intelligently.  Horses  were  her  passion,  and  not  Lewis 
himself  understood  their  care  and  management  better.  Toward  the 
cool  of  the  day  and  just  as  she  had  pulled  the  ponies  down  to  a 
walk  in  a  long,  deserted  avenue  overspanned  with  elms  and  great 
cottonwoods  she  was  all  at  once  aware  of  an  open  carriage  that  had 
turned  into  the  far  end  of  the  same  avenue  approaching  at  an  easy 
trot.  It  drew  near,  and  she  saw  that  its  only  occupant  was  a  man 
leaning  back  rather  limply  in  the  cushions.  As  the  eye  of  the 
trained  nurse  fell  upon  him  she  at  once  placed  him  in  the  category 
of  convalescents  or  chronic  invalids,  and  she  was  vaguely  speculat 
ing  as  to  the  nature  of  his  complaint  when  the  carriage  drew  op 
posite  her  phaeton,  and  she  recognized  Richard  Ferriss. 

Ferriss,  but  not  the  same  Ferriss  to  whom  she  had  said  good-by 
on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  March  afternoon,  with  its  gusts  and 
rain,  four  long  years  ago.  The  Ferriss  she  had  known  then  had 
been  an  alert,  keen  man,  with  quick,  bright  eyes,  alive  to  every 
impression,  responsive  to  every  sensation,  living  his  full  allowance 
of  life.  She  was  looking  now  at  a  man  unnaturally  old,  of  dead 
ened  nerves,  listless.  As  he  caught  sight  of  her  and  recognized 
her  he  suddenly  roused  himself  with  a  quick,  glad  smile  and  with  a 
look  in  his  eyes  that  to  Lloyd  was  unmistakable.  But  there  was 
not  that  joyful,  exuberant  start  she  had  anticipated,  and,  for  that 
matter,  wished.  Neither  did  Lloyd  set  any  too  great  store  by  the 
small  amenities  of  life,  but  that  Ferriss  should  remain  covered  hurt 
her  a  little.  She  wondered  how  she  could  note  so  trivial  a  detail 
'at  such  a  moment.  But  this  was  Ferriss. 

Her  heart  was  beating  fast  and  thick  as  she  halted  her  ponies. 
The  driver  of  the  carriage  jumped  down  and  held  the  door  for 
Ferriss,  and  the  chief  engineer  stepped  quickly  toward  her. 

So  it  was  they  met  after  four  years — and  such  years — unex 
pectedly,  without  warning  or  preparation,  and  not  at  all  as  she  had 
expected.  What  they  said  to  each  other  in  those  first  few  moments 
Lloyd  could  never  afterward  clearly  remember.  One  incident  alone 
detached  itself  vividly  from  the  blur. 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  square,"  Ferriss  had  explained, 
"and  they  told  me  that  you  had  left  for  a  drive  out  here  only  the 
moment  before,  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  come  after  you." 


A  Man's  Woman 

^a'n't  we  walk  a  little  ?"  she  remembered  she  had  asked  after 
Ae.     "We  can  have  the  carriages  wait;  or  do  you  feel  strong 
t,    /gh?    I  forgot—" 

But  he  interrupted  her,  protesting  his  fitness. 

"The  doctor  merely  sent  me  out  to  get  the  air,  and  it's  humiliating 
to  be  wheeled  about  like  an  old  woman." 

Lloyd  passed  the  reins  back  of  her  to  Lewis,  and,  gathering  her 
skirts  about  her,  started  to  descend  from  the  phaeton.  The  step 
was  rather  high  from  the  ground.  Ferriss  stood  close  by.  Why 
did  he  not  help  her?  Why  did  he  stand  there,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  so  listless  and  unconscious  of  her  difficulty.  A  little  glow 
of  irritation  deepened  the  dull  crimson  of  her  cheeks.  Even  re 
turned  Arctic  explorers  could  not  afford  to  ignore  entirely  life's 
little  courtesies — and  he  of  all  men. 

"Well,"  she  said,  expectantly,  hesitating  before  attempting  to 
descend. 

Then  she  caught  Ferriss's  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  He  was  smiling  a 
little,  but  the  dull,  stupefied  expression  of  his  face  seemed  for  a 
brief  instant  to  give  place  to  one  of  great  sadness.  He  raised  a 
shoulder  resignedly,  and  Lloyd,  with  the  suddeness  of  a  blow, 
remembered  that  Ferriss  had  no  hands. 

She  dropped  back  in  the  seat  of  the  phaeton,  covering  her  eyes, 
shaken  and  unnerved  for  the  moment  with  a  great  thrill  of  infinite 
pity — of  shame  at  her  own  awkwardness,  and  of  horror  as  for  one 
brief  instant  the  smiling  summer  park,  the  afternoon's  warmth,  the 
avenue  of  green,  over-arching  trees,  the  trim,  lacquered  vehicles 
and  glossy-brown  horses  were  struck  from  her  mind,  and  she  had 
a  swift  vision  of  the  Ice,  the  darkness  of  the  winter  night,  the 
lacerating,  merciless  cold,  the  blinding,  whirling,  dust-like  snow. 

For  half  an  hour  they  walked  slowly  about  in  the  park,  the 
carriages  following  at  a  distance.  They  did  not  talk  very  much. 
It  seemed  to  Lloyd  that  she  would  never  tire  of  scrutinizing  his 
face,  that  her  interest  in  his  point  of  view,  his  opinions,  would  never 
flag.  He  had  had  an  experience  that  came  but  to  few  men.  For 
four  years  he  had  been  out  of  the  world,  had  undergone  privation 
beyond  conception.  What  now  was  to  be  his  attitude?  How  had 
he  changed?  That  he  had  not  changed  to  her  Lloyd  knew  in  an 
.instant.  He  still  loved  her;  that  was  beyond  all  doubt.  But  this 
terrible  apathy  that  seemed  now  to  be  a  part  of  him !  She  had  heard 
of  the  numbing  stupor  that  invades  those  who  stay  beyond  their 
time  in  the  Ice,  but  never  before  had  she  seen  it  in  its  reality.  It 


A  Man's  Woman  331 

was  not  a  lack" of  intelligence;  it  seemed  rather  to  be  the  machinery 
of  intelligence  rusted  and  clogged  from  long  disuse.  He  deliberated 
long  before  he  spoke.  It  took  him  some  time  to  understand  things. 
Speech  did  not  come  to  him  readily,  and  he  became  easily  confused 
in  the  matter  of  words.  Once,  suddenly,  he  had  interrupted  her, 
breaking  out  with : 

"Oh,  the  smell  of  the  trees,  of  the  grass!  Isn't  it  wonderful; 
isn't  it  wonderful?"  And  a  few  seconds  later,  quite  irrelevantly: 
"And,  after  all,  we  failed/' 

At  once  Lloyd  was  all  aroused,  defending  him  against  himself. 

"Failed !  And  you  say  that?  If  you  did  not  reach  the  Pole,  what 
then?  The  world  will  judge  you  by  results  perhaps,  and  the  world's 
judgment  will  be  wrong.  Is  it  nothing  that  you  have  given  the  world 
an  example  of  heroism — 

"Oh,  don't  call  it  that." 

"Of  heroism,  of  courage,  of  endurance?  Is  it  nothing  that  you 
have  overcome  obstacles  before  which  other  men  would  have  died? 
Is  it  nothing  that  you  have  shown  us  all  how  to  be  patient,  how  to  be 
strong?  There  are  some  things  better  even  than  reaching  the  Pole. 
To  suffer  and  be  calm  is  one  of  them ;  not  to  give  up— never  to  be 
beaten — is  another.  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man !  Ten  thousand,  a  hundred 
thousand  people  are  reading  to-night  of  what  you  have  done — of 
what  you  have  done,  you  understand,  not  of  what  you  have  failed  to 
do.  They  have  seen — you  have  shown  them  what  the  man  can  do 
who  says  /  will,  and  you  have  done  a  little  more,  have  gone  a  little 
further,  have  been  a  little  braver,  a  little  hardier,  a  little  nobler,  a 
little  more  determined  than  any  one  has  ever  been  before.  Whoever 
fails  now  can  not  excuse  himself  by  saying  that  he  has  done  as  much 
as  a  man  can  do.  He  will  have  to  remember  the  men  of  the  'Freja/ 
He  will  have  to  remember  you.  Don't  you  suppose  I  am  proud 
of  you ;  don't  you  suppose  that  I  am  stronger  and  better  because  of 
what  you  have  done  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  nothing  for  me  to  be  sitting 
here  beside  you,  here  in  this  park — to  be — yes,  to  be  with  you? 
Can't  you  understand  ?  Isn't  it  something  to  me  that  you  are  the  man 
you  are ;  not  the  man  whose  name  the  people  are  shouting  just  now, 
not  the  man  to  whom  a  king  gave  a  bit  of  ribbon  and  enamel,  but 
the  man  who  lived  like  a  man,  who  would  not  die  just  because  it  was 
easier  to  die  than  to  live,  who  fought  like  a  man,  not  only  for  him 
self,  but  ror  the  lives  of  those  he  led,  who  showed  us  all  how  to  be 
strong,  and  how  strong  one  could  be  if  one  would  only  try?  What 
does  the  Pole  amount  to?  The  world  wants  men,  great,  strong, 


A  Man's  Woman 

harsh,  brutal  men— men  with  purposes,  who  let  nothing,  nothing, 
nothing  stand  in  their  way." 

"You  mean  Bennett,"  said  Ferriss,  looking  up  quickly.     "You 
commenced  by  speaking  of  me,  but  it's  Bennett  you  are  talking  of 


now." 


But  he  caught  her  glance  and  saw  that  she  was  looking  stead 
fastly  at  him— at  him.  A  look  was  in  her  face,  a  light  in  her  dull- 
blue  eyes,  that  he  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"Lloyd,"  he  said  quietly,  "which  one  of  us,  Bennett  or  I,  were  you 
speaking  of  just  then?  You  know  what  I  mean;  which  one  of  us?" 

"I  was  speaking  of  the  man  who  was  strong  enough  to  do  great 
things,"  she  said. 

Ferriss  drew  the  stumps  of  his  arms  from  his  pockets  and  smiled 
at  them  grimly. 

"H'm,  can  one  do  much — this  way  ?"  he  muttered. 

With  a  movement  she  did  not  try  to  restrain  Lloyd  put  both  her 
hands  over  his  poor,  shapeless  wrists.  Never  in  her  life  had  she 
been  so  strongly  moved.  Pity,  such  as  she  had  never  known,  a 
tenderness  and  compassion  such  as  she  had  never  experienced,  went 
knocking  at  her  breast.  She  had  no  words  at  hand  for  so  great 
emotions.  She  longed  to  tell  him  what  was  in  her  heart,  but  all 
speech  failed. 

"Don't!"  she  exclaimed.     "Don't!     I  will  not  have  you. 

A  little  later,  as  they  were  returning  toward  the  carriages,  Lloyd, 
after  a  moment's  deliberation  upon  the  matter,  said : 

"Can't  I  set  you  down  somewhere  near  your  rooms?  Let  your 
carriage  go." 

He  shook  his  head:  "I've  just  given  up  my  downtown  rooms. 
Bennett  and  I  have  taken  other  rooms  much  further  uptown.  In 
fact,  I  believe  I  am  supposed  to  be  going  there  now.  It  would  be 
quite  out  of  your  way  to  take  me  there.  We  are  much  quieter  out 
there,  and  people  can't  get  at  us  so  readily.  The  doctor  says  we 
both  need  rest  after  our  shaking  up.  Bennett  himself — iron  as  he  is 
—is  none  too  strong,  and  what  with  the  mail,  the  telegrams,  re 
porters,  deputations,  editors,  and  visitors,  and  the  like,  we  are  kept 
on  something  of  a  strain.  Besides  we  have  still  a  good  deal  of 
work  to  do  getting  our  notes  into  shape." 

Lewis  brought  the  ponies  to  the  edge  of  the  walk,  and  Lloyd 
and  Ferriss  separated,  she  turning  the  ponies'  heads  homeward, 
starting  away  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  leaving  him  in  his  carriage,  which 
he  had  directed  to  carry  him  to  his  new  quarters. 


A  Man's  Woman  333 

But  at  the  turn  of  the  avenue  Lloyd  leaned  from  the  phaeton  and 
looked  back.  The  carriage  was  just  disappearing  down  the  vista  of 
elms  and  cottonwoods.  She  waved  her  hand  gayly,  and  Ferriss 
responded  with  the  stump  of  one  forearm. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  a  Friday,  Lloyd  was  to  go  to  the 
country.  Every  year  in  the  heat  of  the  summer  Lloyd  spent  her  short 
vacation  in  the  sleepy  and  old-fashioned  little  village  of  Bannister. 
The  country  around  the  village  was  part  of  the  Searight  estate.  It 
was  quiet,  off  the  railroad,  just  the  place  to  forget  duties,  respon 
sibilities,  and  the  wearing  anxieties  of  sick-rooms.  But  Thursday 
afternoon  she  expected  Bennett. 

Thursday  morning  she  was  in  her  room.  Her  trunk  was  al 
ready  packed.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  She  was  off 
duty.  There  was  neither  care  nor  responsibility  upon  her  mind.  But 
she  was  too  joyful,  too  happily  exalted,  too  exuberant  in  gayety  to 
pass  her  time  in  reading.  She  wanted  action,  movement,  life,  and 
instinctively  threw  open  a  window  of  her  room,  and,  according  to 
her  habit,  leaned  upon  her  elbows  and  looked  out  and  down  upon  the 
square.  The  morning  was  charming.  Later  in  the  day  it  probably 
would  be  very  hot,  but  as  yet  the  breeze  of  the  earliest  hours  was 
jtirring  nimbly.  The  cool  of  it  put  a  brisker  note  in  the  sombre 
glow  of  her  cheeks,  and  just  stirred  a  lock  that,  escaping  from  her 
gorgeous  coils  of  dark-red  hair,  hung  curling  over  her  ear  and  neck. 
Into  her  eyes  of  dull  blue — like  the  blue  of  old  china — the  morn 
ing's  sun  sent  an  occasional  unwonted  sparkle.  Over  the  asphalt 
and  over  the  green  grass-plots  of  the  square  the  shadows  of  the 
venerable  elms  wove  a  shifting  maze  of  tracery.  Traffic  avoided  the 
place.  It  was  invariably  quiet  in  the  square,  and  one — as  now — 
could  always  hear  the  subdued  ripple  and  murmur  of  the  fountain 
in  the  centre. 

But  the  crowning  delight  of  that  morning  was  the  sudden  appear 
ance  of  a  robin  in  a  tree  close  to  Lloyd's  window.  He  was  searching 
his  breakfast.  At  every  moment  he  came  and  went  between  the 
tree-tops  and  the  grass-plots,  very  important,  very  preoccupied, 
chittering  and  calling  the  while,  as  though  he  would  never  tire. 
Lloyd  whistled  to  him,  and  instantly  he  answered,  cocking  his  head 
sidewise.  She  whistled  again,  and  he  piped  back  ah  impudent  re 
sponse,  and  for  quite  five  minutes  the  two  held  an  elaborate  alter 
cation  between  tree-top  and  window-ledge.  Lloyd  caught  herself 
laughing  outright  and  aloud  for  no  assignable  reason.  "Ah,  the 
world  was  a  pretty  good  place  after  all !" 


334  A  Man's  Woman 

A  little  later,  and  while  she  was  still  at  the  window,  Rownie 
brought  her  a  note  from  Bennett,  sent  by  special  messenger. 

"Ferriss  woke  up  sick  this  morning.     Nobody  here  but  the  two  of  us; 
can't  leave  him  alone.  BENNETT." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Lloyd  Searight  a  little  blankly. 

The  robin  and  his  effrontery  at  once  ceased  to  be  amusing.  She 
closed  the  window  abruptly,  shutting  out  the  summer  morning's 
gayety  and  charm,  turning  her  back  upon  the  sunlight. 

Now  she  was  more  in  the  humor  of  reading.  On  the  great  divan 
against  the  wall  lay  the  month's  magazines  and  two  illustrated 
weeklies.  Lloyd  had  bought  them  to  read  on  the  train.  But  now  she 
settled  herself  upon  the  divan  and,  picking  up  one  of  the  weeklies, 
turned  its  leaves  listlessly.  All  at  once  she  came  upon  two  pictures 
admirably  reproduced  from  photographs,  and  serving-  as  illustra 
tions  to  the  weekly's  main  article — "The  Two  Leaders  of  the  'Freja7 
Expedition."  One  was  a  picture  of  Bennett,  the  other  of  Ferriss. 

The  suddenness  with  which  she  had  conie  upon  his  likeness 
almost  took  Lloyd's  breath  from  her.  It  was  the  last  thing  she  had 
expected.  If  he  himself  had  abruptly  entered  the  room  in  person  she 
could  hardly  have  been  more  surprised.  Her  heart  gave  a  great 
leap,  the  dull  crimson  of  her  cheeks  shot  to  her  forehead.  Then,  with 
a  charming  movement,  at  once  impulsive  and  shamefaced,  smiling 
the  while,  her  eyes  half-closing,  she  laid  her  cheek  upon  the  picture, 
murmuring  to  herself  words  that  only  herself  should  hear.  The 
next  day  she  left  for  the  country. 

On  that  same  day  when  Dr.  Pitts  arrived  at  the  rooms  Ferriss 
and  Bennett  had  taken  he  found  the  anteroom  already  crowded  with 
visitors — a  knot  of  interviewers,  the  manager  of  a  lecture  bureau, 
as  well  as  the  agent  of  a  patented  cereal  (who  sought  the  man  of  the 
hour  for  an  indorsement  of  his  article),  and  two  female  reporters. 

Decidedly  Richard  Ferriss  was  ill;  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  that.  Bennett  had  not  slept  the  night  before,  but  had  gone 
to  and  fro  about  the  rooms  tending  to  his  wants  with  a  solicitude  and 
a  gentleness  that  in  a  man  so  harsh  and  so  toughly  fibred  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place.  Bennett  was  far  from  well  himself.  The 
terrible  milling  which  he  had  undergone  had  told  even  upon  that 
enormous  frame,  but  his  own  ailments  were  promptly  ignored  now 
that  Ferriss,  the  man  of  all  men  to  him,  was  "down." 

"I  didn't  pull  through  with  you,  old  man,"  he  responded  to  all 
of  Ferriss's  protests,  "to  have  you  get  sick  on  my  hands  at  this  time 


A  Man's  Woman  335 

of  day.  No  more  of  your  damned  foolishness  now.  Here's  the 
quinine.  Down  with  it !" 

Bennett  met  Pitts  at  the  door  of  Ferriss's  room,  and  before 
going  in  drew  him  into  a  corner. 

"He's  a  sick  boy,  Pitts,  and  is  going  to  be  worse,  though  he's 
just  enough  of  a  fool  boy  not  to  admit  it.  I've  seen  them  start  off 
this  gait  before.  Remember,  too,  when  you  look  him  over,  that 
it's  not  as  though  he  had  been  in  a  healthy  condition  before.  Our 
work  in  the  ice  ground  him  down  about  as  fine  as  he  could  go  and 
yet  live,  and  the  hardtack  and  salt  pork  on  the  steam  whalers  were 
not  a  good  diet  for  a  convalescent.  And  see  here,  Pitts,"  said 
Bennett,  clearing  his  throat,  "I — well,  I'm  rather  fond  of  that  fool 
boy  in  there.  We  are  not  taking  any  chances,  you  understand." 

After  the  doctor  had  seen  the  chief  engineer  and  had  prescribed 
calomel  and  a  milk  diet,  Bennett  followed  him  out  into  the  hall  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  door. 

"Verdict?"  he  demanded,  fixing  the  physician  intently  with  his 
small,  distorted  eyes.  But  Pitts  was  non-committal. 

"Yes,  he's  a  sick  boy,  but  the  thing,  whatever  it  is  going  to  be, 
has  been  gathering  slowly.  He  complains  of  headache,  great  weak 
ness  and  nausea,  and  you  speak  of  frequent  nose-bleeds  during  the 
night.  The  abdomen  is  tender  upon  pressure,  which  is  a  symptom 
I  would  rather  not  have  found.  But  I  can't  make  any  positive 
diagnosis  as  yet.  Some  big  sickness  is  coming  on — that,  I  am 
afraid,  is  certain.  I  shall  come  out  here  to-morrow.  But,  Mr. 
Bennett,  be  careful  of  yourself.  Even  steel  can  weaken,  you  know. 
You  see  this  rabble"  (he  motioned  with  his  head  toward  the  ante 
room,  where  the  other  visitors  were  waiting)  "that  is  hounding  you? 
Everybody  knows  where  you  are.  Man,  you  must  have  rest.  I 
don't  need  to  look  at  you  more  than  once  to  know  that.  Get  away! 
Get  away  even  from  your  mails !  Hide  from  everybody  for  a 
while !  Don't  think  you  can  nurse  your  friend  through  these  next 
few  weeks,  because  you  can't." 

"Well,"  answered  Bennett,  "wait  a  few  days.  We'll  see  by  the 
end  of  the  week." 

The  week  passed.  Ferriss  went  gradually  from  bad  to  worse, 
though  as  yet  the  disease  persistently  refused  to  declare  itself. 
He  was  quite  helpless,  and  Bennett  watched  over  him  night  and 
day,  pottering  around  him  by  the  hour,  giving  him  his  medicines, 
cooking  his  food,  and  even  when  Ferriss  complained  of  the  hotness 
of  the  bedclothes,  changing  the  very  linen  that  he  might  lie  upon 


A  Man's  Woman 

cool  sheets.  But  at  the  end  of  the  week  Dr.  Pitts  declared  that 
Bennett  himself  was  in  great  danger  of  breaking  down,  and  was  of 
no  great  service  to  the  sick  man. 

"To-morrow,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  shall  have  a  young  fellow  here 
who  happens  to  be  a  cousin  of  mine.  He  is  an  excellent  trained 
nurse,  a  fellow  we  can  rely  upon.  He'll  take  your  place.  I'll  have 
him  here  to-morrow,  and  you  must  get  away.  Hide  somewhere. 
Don't  even  allow  your  mail  to  be  forwarded.  The  nurse  and  I  will 
take  care  of  iMr.  Ferriss.  You  can  leave  me  your  address,  and  I 
will  wire  you  if  it  is  necessary.  Now  be  persuaded  like  a  reason 
able  man.  I  will  stake  my  professional  reputation  that  you  will 
knock  under  if  you  stay  here  with  a  sick  man  on  your  hands  and 
newspaper  men  taking  the  house  by  storm  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 
Come,  now,  will  you  go?  Mr.  Ferriss  is  in  no  danger,  and  you  will 
do  him  more  harm  by  staying  than  by  going.  So  long  as  you  re 
main  here  you  will  have  this  raft  of  people  in  the  rooms  at  all 
hours.  Deny  yourself!  Keep  them  out!  Keep  out  the  American 
reporter  when  he  goes  gunning  for  a  returned  explorer!  Do  you 
think  this,"  and  he  pointed  again  to  the  crowd  in  the  anteroom,  "is 
the  right  condition  for  a  sick  man's  quarters?  You  are  imperiling 
his  safety,  to  say  nothing  of  your  own,  by  staying  beside  him — you 
draw  the  fire,  Mr.  Bennett." 

"Well,  there's  something  in  that,"  muttered  Bennett,  pulling  at 
his  mustache.  "But — "  Bennett  hesitated,  then:  "Pitts,  I  want 
you  to  take  my  place  here  if  I  go  away.  Have  a  nurse  if  you  like, 
but  I  shouldn't  feel  justified  in  leaving  the  boy  in  his  condition  un 
less  I  knew  you  were  with  him  continually.  I  don't  know  what  your 
practice  is  worth  to  you,  say  for  a  month,  or  until  the  boy  is  out  of 
danger,  but  make  me  a  proposition.  I  think  we  can  come  to  an 
understanding." 

"But  it  won't  be  necessary  to  have  a  doctor  with  Mr.  Ferriss 
constantly.  I  should  see  him  every  day  and  the  nurse — " 

Bennett  promptly  overrode  his  objections.  Harshly  and  abrupt 
ly  he  exclaimed:  "I'm  not  taking  any  chances.  It  shall  be  as  I 
say.  I  want  the  boy  well,  and  I  want  you  and  the  nurse  to  see  to 
it  that  he  gets  well.  I'll  meet  the  expenses." 

Bennett  did  not  hear  the  doctor's  response  and  his  suggestion  as 
to  the  advisability  of  taking  Ferriss  to  his  own  house  in  the  country 
while  he  could  be  moved.  For  the  moment  he  was  not  listening. 
An  idea  had  abruptly  presented  itself  to  him.  He  was  to  go  to  the 
country.  But  where?  A  grim  smile  began  to  relax  the  close- 


A   Man's  Woman  337 

gripped  lips  and  the  hard  set  of  the  protruding  jaw.  He  tugged 
again  at  his  mustache,  scowling  at  the  doctor,  trying  to  hide  his 
humor. 

"Well,  that's  settled  then,"  he  said;  "I'll  get  away  to-morrow — 
somewhere." 

"Whereabouts  ?"  demanded  the  doctor.  "I  shall  want  to  let  you 
know  how  we  progress/' 

Bennett  chose  to  feel  a  certain  irritation.  What  business  of 
Pitts's  was  it  whom  he  went  to  see,  or,  rather,  where  he  meant 
to  go? 

"You  told  me  to  hide  away  from  everybody,  not  even  to  allow 
my  mail  to  be  forwarded.  But  I'll  let  you  know  where  to  reach 
me,  of  course,  as  soon  as  I  get  there.  It  won't  be  far  from  town." 

"And  I  will  take  your  place  here  with  Mr.  Ferriss;  somebody 
will  be  with  him  at  every  moment,  and  I  shall  only  wire  you,"  con 
tinued  the  doctor,  "in  case  of  urgent  necessity.  I  want  you  to  have 
all  the  rest  you  can,  and  stay  away  as  long  as  possible.  I  shan't 
annoy  you  with  telegrams  unless  I  must.  You'll  understand  that 
no  news  is  good  news." 

On  that  particular  morning  Lloyd  sat  in  her  room  in  the  old 
farmhouse  that  she  always  elected  to  call  her  home  as  often  as  she 
visited  Bannister.  It  was  some  quarter  of  a  mile  outside  the  little 
village,  and  on  the  road  that  connected  it  with  the  railway  at  Fourth 
Lake,  some  six  miles  over  the  hills  to  the  east.  It  was  yet  early  in 
the  morning,  and  Lloyd  was  writing  letters  that  she  would  post  at 
Fourth  Lake  later  in  the  forenoon.  She  intended  driving  over  to 
the  lake.  Two  days  before  Lewis  had  arrived  with  Rox,  the  ponies 
and  the  phaeton.  Lloyd's  dog-cart,  a  very  gorgeous,  high-wheeled 
affair,  was  always  kept  at  Bannister. 

The  room  in  which  she  now  sat  was  delightful.  Everything  was 
white,  from  the  curtains  of  the  bed  to  the  chintz  hangings  on  the 
walls.  A  rug  of  white  fur  was  on  the  floor.  The  panelings  and 
wooden  shutters  of  the  windows  were  painted  white.  The  fireplace 
was  set  in  glossy-white  tiles,  and  its  opening  covered  with  a  screen 
of  white  feathers.  The  windows  were  flung  wide,  and  a  great  flood 
of  white  sunlight  came  pouring  into  the  room.  Lloyd  herself  was 
dressed  in  white,  from  the  clean,  crisp  scarf  tied  about  her  neck 
to  the  tip  of  her  canvas  tennis  shoes.  And  in  all  this  array  of  white 
only  the  dull-red  flame  of  her  high-piled  hair — in  the  sunshine 
glowing  like  burnished  copper — set  a  vivid  note  of  color,  the  little 

O — III — NORRIS 


A  Man's  Woman 

strands  and  locks  about  her  neck  and  ears  coruscating  as  the  breeze 
from  the  open  windows  stirred  them. 

The  morning  was  veritably  royal — still,  cool,  and  odorous  of 
woods  and  cattle  and  growing  grass.  A  great  sense  of  gayety,  of 
exhilaration,  was  in  the  air.  Lloyd  was  all  in  tune  with  it.  While 
she  wrote  her  left  elbow  rested  on  the  table,  and  in  her  left  hand 
she  held  a  huge,  green  apple,  unripe,  sour,  delicious  beyond  words, 
and  into  which  she  bit  from  time  to  time  with  the  silent  enjoyment 
of  a  schoolgirl. 

Her  letter  was  to  Hattie's  father,  Mr.  Campbell,  and  she  wrote 
to  ask  if  the  little  girl  might  not  spend  a  week  with  her  at  Ban 
nister.  When  the  letter  was  finished  and  addressed  she  thrust  it 
into  her  belt,  and,  putting  on  her  hat,  ran  downstairs.  Lewis  had 
brought  the  dog-cart  to  the  gate,  and  stood  waiting  in  the  road  by 
Rox's  head.  But  as  Lloyd  went  down  the  brick-paved  walk  of  the 
front  yard  Mrs.  Applegate,  who  owned  the  farmhouse,  and  who 
was  at  once  Lloyd's  tenant,  landlady,  housekeeper,  and  cook,  ap 
peared  on  the  porch  of  the  house,  the  head  of  a  fish  in  her  hand, 
and  Charley- Joe,  the  yellow  tomcat,  at  her  heels,  eying  her  with 
painful  intentness. 

"Say,  Miss  Searight,"  she  called,  her  forearm  across  her  fore 
head  to  shade  her  eyes,  the  hand  still  holding  the  fish's  head,  "say, 
while  you're  out  this  morning  will  you  keep  an  eye  out  for  that  dog 
of  our'n — you  know,  Dan — .the  one  with  liver'n  white  spots?  He's 
run  off  again — ain't  seen  him  since  yesterday  noon.  He  gets  away 
an'  goes  off  fighting  other  dogs  over  the  whole  blessed  county. 
There  ain't  a  dog  big  'r  little  within  ten  mile  that  Dan  ain't  licked. 
He'd  sooner  fight  than  he  would  eat,  that  dog." 

"I  will,  I  will,"  answered  Lloyd,  climbing  to  the  high  seat,  "and 
if  I  find  him  I  shall  drag  him  back  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck.  Good- 
morning,  Lewis.  Why  have  you  put  the  overhead  check  on  Rox?" 

Lewis  touched  his  cap. 

"He  feels  his  oats  some  this  morning,  and  if  he  gets  his  lower 
jaw  agin'  his  chest  there's  no  holding  of  him,  Miss — no  holding  of 
him  in  the  world." 

Lloyd  gathered  up  the  reins  and  spoke  to  the  horse,  and  Lewis 
stood  aside. 

Rox  promptly  went  up  into  the  air  on  his  hind  legs,  shaking  his 
head  with  a  great  snort. 

"Steady,  you  old  pig,"  said  Loyd,  calmly.  "Soh,  soh,  who's 
trying  to  kill  you?" 


A  Man's  Woman 


339 


"Hadn't  I  better  come  with  you,  Miss?"  inquired  Lewis 
anxiously. 

Lloyd  shook  her  head.    "No,  indeed,"  she  said  decisively. 

Rox,  after  vindicating  his  own  independence  by  the  proper 
amount  of  showing  off,  started  away  down  the  road  with  as  high 
an  action  as  he  could  command,  playing  to  the  gallery,  looking  back 
and  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye  to  see  if  Lewis  observed  what  a  ter 
rible  fellow  he  was  that  morning. 

"Well,  of  all  the  critters!"  commented  Mrs.  Applegate  from 
the  porch.  But  Charley- Joe,  with  an  almost  hypnotic  fixity  in  his 
yellow  eyes,  and  who  during  the  last  few  minutes  had  several  times 
opened  his  mouth  wide  in  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  mew,  suddenly 
found  his  voice  with  a  prolonged  and  complaining  note. 

"Well,  heavens  an'  airth,  take  your  fish,  then!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Applegate,  suddenly  remembering  the  cat.  "An'  get  off 'n  my  porch 
with  it."  She  pushed  him  away  with  the  side  of  her  foot,  and 
Charley- Joe,  with  the  fish's  head  in  his  teeth,  retired  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  by  the  rain  barrel,  where  at  intervals  he  could 
be  heard  growling  to  himself  in  a  high-pitched  key,  pretending  the 
approach  of  some  terrible  enemy. 

Meanwhile  Lloyd,  already  well  on  her  way,  was  having  an  excit 
ing  tussle  with  Rox.  The  horse  had  begun  by  making  an  exhibition 
of  himself  for  all  who  could  see,  but  in  the  end  he  had  so  worked 
upon  his  own  nerves  that  instead  of  frightening  others  he  only 
succeeded  in  terrifying  himself.  He  was  city-bred,  and  the  sudden 
change  from  brick  houses  to  open  fields  had  demoralized  him.  He 
began  to  have  a  dim  consciousness  of  just  how  strong  he  was. 
There  was  nothing  vicious  about  him.  He  would  not  have  lowered 
himself  to  kick,  but  he  did  want,  with  all  the  big,  strong  heart  of 
him,  to  run. 

But  back  of  him  there — he  felt  it  thrilling  along  the  tense-drawn 
reins — was  a  calm,  powerful  grip,  even,  steady,  masterful.  Turn 
his  head  he  could  not,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  Lloyd  had  taken 
a  double  twist  upon  the  reins,  and  that  her  hands,  even  if  they 
were  gloved  in  white,  were  strong — strong  enough  to  hold  him  to 
his  work.  And  besides  this — he  could  tell  it  by  the  very  feel  of  the 
bit — he  knew  that  she  did  not  take  him  very  seriously,  that  he  could 
not  make  her  afraid  of  him.  He  knew  that  she  could  tell  at  once 
whether  he  shied  because  he  was  really  frightened  or  because  he 
wanted  to  break  the  shaft,  and  that  in  the  latter  case  he  would  get 
the  whip — and  mercilessly,  too — across  his  haunch,  a  degradation, 


A  Man's  Woman 

above  all  things,  to  be  avoided.  And  she  had  called  him  an  old  pig 
once  already  that  morning. 

Lloyd  drove  on.  She  keenly  enjoyed  this  struggle  between  the 
horse's  strength  and  her  own  determination,  her  own  obstinacy. 
No,  she  would  not  let  Rox  have  his  way ;  she  would  not  allow  him 
to  triumph  over  her  for  a  single  moment.  She  would  neither  be 
forced  nor  tricked  into  yielding  a  single  point,  however  small.  She 
would  be  mistress  of  the  situation. 

By  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  had  him  well  in  hand,  and  was 
bowling  smoothly  along  a  level  stretch  of  road  at  the  foot  of  an 
abrupt  rise  of  land  covered  with  scrub  oak  and  broken  with  out- 
croppings  of  granite  of  a  curious  formation.  Just  beyond  here  the 
road  crossed  the  canal  by  a  narrow — in  fact,  a  much  too  narrow — 
plank  bridge  without  guard-rails.  The  wide-axled  dog-cart  had 
just  sufficient  room  on  either  hand,  and  Lloyd,  too  good  a  whip 
to  take  chances  with  so  nervous  a  horse  as  Rox,  drew  him  down  to 
a  walk  as  she  approached  it.  But  of  a  sudden  her  eyes  were  ar 
rested  by  a  curious  sight.  She  halted  the  cart. 

At  the  roadside,  some  fifty  yards  from  the  plank  bridge,  were 
two  dogs.  Evidently  there  had  just  been  a  dreadful  fight.  Herr 
and  there  a  stone  was  streaked  with  blood.  The  grass  and  smaller 
bushes  were  flattened  out,  and  tufts  of  hair  were  scattered  about 
upon  the  ground.  Of  the  two  dogs  Lloyd  recognized  one  upon  the 
instant.  It  was  Dan,  the  "liver'n  white"  fox-hound  of  the  farm 
house — the  fighter  and  terror  of  the  country.  But  he  was  lying 
upon  his  side  now,  the  foreleg  broken,  or  rather  crushed,  as  if  in 
a  vice ;  the  throat  torn  open,  the  life-blood  in  a  great  pool  about  his 
head.  He  was  dead,  or  in  the  very  throes  of  death.  Poor  Dan,  he 
had  fought  his  last  fight,  had  found  more  than  his  match  at  last. 

Lloyd  looked  at  the  other  dog — the  victor;  then  looked  at  him 
a  second  time  and  a  third. 

"Well,"  she  murmured,  "that's  a  strange-looking  dog." 

In  fact,  he  was  a  curious  animal.  His  broad,  strong  body  was 
covered  with  a  brown  fur  as  dense,  as  thick,  and  as  soft  as  a  wolf's ; 
the  ears  were  pricked  and  pointed,  the  muzzle  sharp,  the  eyes  slant 
and  beady.  The  breast  was  disproportionately  broad,  the  forelegs 
short  and  apparently  very  powerful.  Around  his  neck  was  a  broad 
nickeled  collar. 

But  as  Lloyd  sat  in  the  cart  watching  him  he  promptly  demon 
strated  the  fact  that  his  nature  was  as  extraordinary  as  his  looks. 
He  turned  again  from  a  momentary  inspection  of  the  intruders, 


A  Man's  Woman  341 

sniffed  once  or  twice  at  his  dead  enemy,  then  suddenly  began  to 
eat  him. 

Lloyd's  gorge  rose  with  anger  and  disgust.  Even  if  Dan  had 
been  killed,  it  had  been  in  fair  fight,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  Dan  himself  had  been  the  aggressor.  She  could  even  feel  a 
little  respect  for  the  conqueror  of  the  champion,  but  to  turn  upon 
the  dead  foe,  now  that  the  heat  of  battle  was  past,  and  (in  no  spirit 
of  hate  or  rage)  deliberately  to  eat  him.  What  a  horror!  She  took 
out  her  whip. 

"Shame  on  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "Ugh!  what  a  savage;  I 
shan't  allow  you !" 

A  farm-hand  was  coming  across  the  plank  bridge,  and  as  he 
drew  near  the  cart  Lloyd  asked  him  to  hold  Rox  for  a  moment. 
Rox  was  one  of  those  horses  who,  when  standing  still,  are  docile 
as  a  kitten,  and  she  had  no  hesitancy  in  leaving  him  with  a  man  at 
his  head.  She  jumped  out,  the  whip  in  her  hand.  Dan  was  beyond 
all  help,  but  she  wanted  at  least  to  take  his  collar  back  to  Mrs. 
Applegate.  The  strange  dog  permitted  himself  to  be  driven  off  a 
little  distance.  Part  of  his  strangeness  seemed  to  be  that  through 
it  all  he  retained  a  certain  placidity  of  temper.  There  was  no 
ferocity  in  his  desire  to  eat  Dan. 

"That's  just  what  makes  it  so  disgusting,"  said  Lloyd,  shaking 
her  whip  at  him.  He  sat  down  upon  his  haunches,  eying  her 
calmly,  his  tongue  lolling.  When  she  had  unbuckled  Dan's  collar 
and  tossed  it  into  the  cart  under  the  seat  she  inquired  of  the  farm 
hand  as  to  where  the  new  dog  came  from. 

"It  beats  me,  Miss  Searight,"  he  answered;  "never  saw  such 
a  bird  in  these  parts  before ;  t'other  belongs  down  to  Applegate's." 

"Come,  let's  have  a  look  at  you,"  said  Lloyd,  putting  back  the 
whip ;  "let  me  see  your  collar." 

Disregarding  the  man's  warning,  she  went  up  to  the  stranger, 
whistling  and  holding  out  her  hand,  and  he  came  up  to  her — a  little 
suspiciously  at  first,  but  in  the  end  wagging  his  tail,  willing  to  be 
friendly.  Lloyd  parted  the  thick  fur  around  his  neck  and  turned 
the  plate  of  the  collar  to  the  light.  On  the  plate  was  engraved: 
"Kamiska,  Arctic  S.  S.  'Freja.'  Return  to  Ward  Bennett." 

"Anything  on  the  collar?"  asked  the  man. 

Lloyd  settled  a  hairpin  in  a  coil  of  hair  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"Nothing — nothing  that  I  can  make  out." 

She  climbed  into  the  cart  again  and  dismissed  the  farm-hand 
with  a  quarter.  He  disappeared  around  the  turn  of  the  road.  But 


A  Man's  Woman 

as  she  was  about  to-  drive  on,  Lloyd  heard  a  great  clattering  of 
stones  upon  the  hill  above  her,  a  crashing  in  the  bushes,  and  a 
shrill  whistle  thrice  repeated.  Kamiska  started  up  at  once,  cocking 
alternate  ears,  then  turned  about  and  ran  up  the  hill  to  meet  Ward 
Bennett,  who  came  scrambling  down,  jumping  from  one  granite 
outcrop  to  another,  holding  on  the  while  by  the  lower  branches  of 
the  scrub  oak-trees. 

He  was  dressed  as  if  for  an  outing,  in  knickerbockers  and  huge, 
hob-nailed  shoes.  He  wore  an  old  shooting-coat  and  a  woolen  cap ; 
a  little  leather  sack  was  slung  from  his  shoulder,  and  in  his  hand 
he  carried  a  short-handled  geologist's  hammer. 

And  then,  after  so  long  a  time,  Lloyd  saw  his  face  again — the 
rugged,  unhandsome  face;  the  massive  jaw,  huge  almost  to  de 
formity;  the  great,  brutal,  indomitable  lips;  the  square-cut  chin 
with  its  forward,  aggressive  thrust;  the  narrow  forehead,  seamed 
and  contracted,  and  the  twinkling,  keen  eyes  so  marred  by  the  cast, 
so  heavily  shadowed  by  the  shaggy  eyebrows.  When  he  spoke  the 
voice  came  heavy  and  vibrant  from  the  great  chest,  a  harsh,  deep 
bass,  a  voice  in  which  to  command  men,  not  a  voice  in  which  to 
talk  to  women. 

Lloyd,  long  schooled  to  self-repression  and  the  control  of  her 
emotions  when  such  repression  and  control  were  necessary,  sat  ab 
solutely  moveless  on  her  high  seat,  her  hands  only  shutting  tighter 
and  tighter  upon  the  reins.  She  had  often  wondered  how  she  would 
feel,  what  was  to  be  her  dominant  impulse,  at  such  moments  as 
these,  and  now  she  realized  that  it  was  not  so  much  joy,  not  so  much 
excitement,  as  a  resolute  determination  not  for  one  instant  to  lose 
her  poise. 

She  was  thinking  rapidly.  For  four  years  they  had  not  met.  At 
one  time  she  believed  him  to  be  dead.  But  in  the  end  he  had  been 
saved,  had  come  back,  and,  ignoring  the  plaudits  of  an  entire  Chris 
tendom,  had  addressed  himself  straight  to  her.  For  one  of  them, 
at  least,  this  meeting  was  a  crisis.  What  would  they  first  say  to 
each  other  ?  how  be  equal  to  the  situation  ?  how  rise  to  its  dramatic 
possibilities?  But  the  moment  had  come  to  them  suddenly,  had 
found  them  all  unprepared.  There  was  no  time  to  think  of  adequate 
words.  Afterward,  when  she  reviewed  this  encounter,  she  told  her 
self  that  they  both  had  failed,  and  that  if  the  meeting  had  been  faith 
fully  reproduced  upon  the  stage  or  in  the  pages  of  a  novel  it  would 
have  seemed  tame  and  commonplace.  These  two,  living  the  actual 
scene,  with  all  the  deep,  strong,  real  emotions  of  them  surging  to 


A  Mans  Woman  343 

the  surface,  the  vitality  of  them,  all  aroused  and  vibrating,  sud 
denly  confronting  actuality  itself,  were  not  even  natural ;  were  not 
even  "true  to  life."  It  was  as  though  they  had  parted  but  a  fort 
night  ago. 

Bennett  caught  his  cap  from  his  head  and  came  toward  her, 
exclaiming : 

"Miss  Searight,  I  believe." 

And  she,  reaching  her  right  hand  over  the  left,  that  still  held 
the  reins,  leaned  from  her  high  seat,  shaking  hands  with  him  and 
replying : 

"Well — Mr.  Bennett,  I'm  so  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  Where 
did  you  come  from?" 

"From  the  city — and  from  seventy-six  degrees  north  latitude." 

"I  congratulate  you.    We  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  you." 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered.  "We  were  not  so  roseate  with  hope 
ourselves — all  the  time.  But  I  have  not  felt  as  though  I  had  really 
come  back  until  this — well,  until  I  had  reached — the  road  between 
Bannister  and  Fourth  Lake,  for  instance,"  and  his  face  relaxed  to 
its  characteristic  grim  smile. 

"You  reached  it  too  late,  then,"  she  responded.  "Your  dog  has 
killed  our  Dan,  and,  what  is  much  worse,  started  to  eat  him.  He's 
a  perfect  savage." 

"Kamiska?  Well,"  he  added,  reflectively,  "it's  my  fault  for  set 
ting  her  a  bad  example.  I  ate  her  trace-mate,  and  was  rather  close 
to  eating  Kamiska  herself  at  one  time.  But  I  didn't  come  down 
here  to  talk  about  that." 

"You  are  looking  rather  worn,  Mr.  Bennett." 

"I  suppose.  The  doctor  sent  me  into  the  country  to  call  back 
the  roses  to  my  pallid  cheek.  So  I  came  down  here — to  geologize. 
I  presume  that  excuse  will  do  as  well  as  another."  Then  suddenly 
he  cried:  "Hello,  steady  there;  quick,  Miss  Searight!" 

It  all  came  so  abruptly  that  neither  of  them  could  afterward 
reconstruct  the  scene  with  any  degree  of  accuracy.  Probably  in 
scrambling  down  the  steep  slope  of  the  bank  Bennett  had  loosened 
the  earth  or  smaller  stones  that  hitherto  had  been  barely  sufficient 
support  to  the  mass  of  earth,  gravel,  rocks,  and  bushes  that  all  at 
once,  and  with  a  sharp,  crackling  noise,  slid  downward  toward  the 
road  from  the  overhanging  bank.  The  slip  was  small,  hardly  more 
than  three  square  yards  of  earth  moving  from  its  place,  but  it  came 
with  a  smart,  quick  rush,  throwing  up  a  cloud  of  dust  and  scat 
tering  pebbles  and  hard  clods  of  dirt  far  before  its  advance. 


A  Man's  Woman 

As  Rox  leaped  Lloyd  threw  her  weight  too  suddenly  on  trie 
reins,  the  horse  arched  his  neck,  and  the  overhead  check  snapped  like 
a  harp-string.  Again  he  reared  from  the  object  of  his  terror,  shak 
ing  his  head  from  side  to  side,  trying  to  get  a  purchase  on  the  bit. 
Then  his  lower  jaw  settled  against  his  chest,  and  all  at  once  he  real 
ized  that  no  pair  of  human  hands  could  hold  him  now.  He  did  not 
rear  again;  his  haunches  suddenly  lowered,  and  with  the  hoofs  of 
his  hind  feet  he  began  feeling  the  ground  for  his  spring.  But  now 
Bennett  was  at  his  head,  gripping  at  the  bit,  striving  to  thrust  him 
back.  Lloyd,  half  risen  from  her  seat,  each  rein  wrapped  twice 
around  her  hands,  her  long,  strong  arms  at  their  fullest  reach,  held 
back  against  the  horse  with  all  her  might,  her  body  swaying  and 
jerking  with  his  plunges.  But  the  overhead  check  once  broken  Lloyd 
might  as  well  have  pulled  against  a  locomotive.  Bennett  was  a 
powerful  man  by  nature,  but  his  great  strength  had  been  not  a  lit 
tle  sapped  by  his  recent  experiences.  Between  the  instant  his  hand 
caught  at  the  bit  and  that  in  which  Rox  had  made  his  first  ineffec 
tual  attempt  to  spring  forward  he  recognized  the  inequality  of  the 
contest.  He  could  hold  Rox  back  for  a  second  or  two,  perhaps 
three,  then  the  horse  would  get  away  from  him.  He  shot  a  glance 
about  him.  Not  twenty  yards  away  was  the  canal  and  the  peril 
ously  narrow  bridge — the  bridge  without  the  guard-rail. 

"Quick,  Miss  Searight!"  he  shouted.  "Jump!  We  can't  hold 
him.  Quick,  do  as  I  tell  you,  jump !" 

But  even  as  he  spoke  Rox  dragged  him  from  his  feet,  his  hoofs 
trampling  the  hollow  road  till  it  reverberated  like  the  roll  of  drums. 
Bracing  himself  against  every  unevenness  of  the  ground,  his  teeth 
set,  his  face  scarlet,  the  veins  in  his  neck  swelling,  suddenly  blue- 
black,  Bennett  wrenched  at  the  bit  till  the  horse's  mouth  went 
bloody.  But  all  to  no  purpose ;  faster  and  faster  Rox  was  escaping 
from  his  control. 

"Jump,  I  tell  you !"  he  shouted  again,  looking  over  his  shoulder ; 
"another  second  and  he's  away." 

Lloyd  dropped  the  reins  and  turned  to  jump.  But  the  lap-robe 
had  slipped  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  cart  when  she  had  risen,  and 
was  in  a  tangle  about  her  feet.  The  cart  was  rocking  like  a  ship  in 
a  storm.  Twice  she  tried  to  free  herself,  holding  to  the  dashboard 
with  one  hand.  Then  the  cart  suddenly  lurched  forward  and  she 
fell  to  her  knees.  Rox  was  off ;  it  was  all  over. 

Not  quite.  In  one  brief  second  of  time — a  hideous  vision  come 
and  gone  between  two  breaths — Lloyd  saw  the  fearful  thing  done 


A  Man's  Woman 


345 


there  in  the  road,  almost  within  reach  of  her  hand.  She  saw  the 
man  and  horse  at  grapples,  the  yellow  reach  of  road  that  lay  between 
her  and  the  canal,  the  canal  itself,  and  the  narrow  bridge.  Then  she 
saw  the  short-handled  geologist's  hammer  gripped  in  Bennett's  fist 
heave  high  in  the  air.  Down  it  came,  swift,  resistless,  terrible — 
one  blow.  The  cart  tipped  forward  as  Rox,  his  knees  bowing  from 
under  him,  slowly  collapsed.  Then  he  rolled  upon  the  shaft  that 
snapped  under  him,  and  the  cart  vibrated  from  end  to  end  as  a  long, 
shuddering  tremble  ran  through  him  with  his  last  deep  breath. 


WHEN  Lloyd  at  length  managed  to  free  herself  and  jump  to  the 
ground  Bennett  came  quickly  toward  her  and  drew  her  away  to 
the  side  of  the  road. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  he  demanded.     "Tell  me,  are  you  hurt?" 

"No,  no;  not  in  the  least." 

"Why  in  the  world  did  you  want  to  drive  such  a  horse?  Don't 
ever  take  such  chances  again.  I  won't  have  it." 

For  a  few  moments  Lloyd  was  too  excited  to  trust  herself  to 
talk,  and  could  only  stand  helplessly  to  one  side,  watching  Bennett 
as  he  stripped  off  the  harness  from  the  dead  horse,  stowed  it  away 
under  the  seat  of  the  cart,  and  rolled  the  cart  itself  to  the  edge  of 
the  road.  Then  at  length  she  said,  trying  to  smile  and  to  steady 
her  voice: 

"It — it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Bennett,  you  do  about — about  as  you 
like  with  my  sta-bub-ble." 

"Sit  down!"  he  commanded,  "you  are  trembling  all  over.  Sit 
down  on  that  rock  there." 

" — and  with  me,"  she  added,  sinking  down  upon  the  bowlder  he 
had  indicated  with  a  movement  of  his  head,  his  hands  busy  with  the 
harness. 

"I'm  sorry  I  had  to  do  that,"  he  explained ;  "but  there  was  no 
help  for  it — nothing  else  to  do.  He  would  have  had  you  in  the 
canal  in  another  second,  if  he  did  not  kill  you  on  the  way  there." 

"Poor  old  Rox,"  murmured  Lloyd;  "I  was  very  fond  of  Rox." 

Bennett  put  himself  in  her  way  as  she  stepped  forward.  He 
had  the  lap-robe  over  his  arm  and  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

"No,  don't  look  at  him.    He's  not  a  pretty  sight.    Come,  shall  I 


A  Man  s  Woman 

take  you  home?  Don't  worry  about  the  cart;  I  will  see  that  it  is 
sent  back." 

"And  that  Rox  is  buried — somewhere?  I  don't  want  him  left 
out  there  for  the  crows."  In  spite  of  Bennett's  injunction  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder  for  a  moment  as  they  started  off  down  the  road. 
"I  only  hope  you  were  sure  there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  Mr.  Ben 
nett,"  she  said. 

"There  was  no  time  to  think,"  he  answered,  "and  I  wasn't  tak 
ing  any  chances." 

But  the  savagery  of  the  whole  affair  stuck  in  Lloyd's  imagina 
tion.  There  was  a  primitiveness,  a  certain  hideous  simplicity  in  the 
way  Bennett  had  met  the  situation  that  filled  her  with  wonder  and 
with  even  a  little  terror  and  mistrust  of  him.  The  vast,  brutal  di 
rectness  of  the  deed  was  out  of  place  and  incongruous  at  this  end- 
of-the-century  time.  It  ignored  two  thousand  years  of  civilization. 
It  was  a  harsh,  clanging,  brazen  note,  powerful,  uncomplicated, 
which  came  jangling  in,  discordant  and  inharmonious  with  the  tune 
of  the  age.  It  savored  of  the  days  when  men  fought  the  brutes  with 
their  hands  or  with  their  clubs.  But  also  it  was  an  indication  of  a 
force  and  a  power  of  mind  that  stopped  at  nothing  to  attain  its 
ends,  that  chose  the  shortest  cut,  the  most  direct  means,  disdainful 
of  hesitation,  holding  delicacy  and  finessing  in  measureless  contempt, 
rushing  straight  to  its  object,  driving  in,  breaking  down  resistance, 
smashing  through  obstacles  with  a  boundless,  crude,  blind  Brobding- 
nag  power,  to  oppose  which  was  to  be  trampled  underfoot  upon  the 
instant. 

It  was  long  before  their  talk  turned  from  the  incident  of  the 
morning,  but  when  it  did  its  subject  was  Richard  Ferriss.  Bennett 
was  sounding  his  praises  and  commenting  upon  his  pluck  and  en 
durance  during  the  retreat  from  the  ship,  when  Lloyd,  after  hesi 
tating  once  or  twice,  asked: 

"How  is  Mr.  Ferriss?     In  your  note  you  said  he  was  ill." 

"So  he  is,"  he  told  her,  "and  I  could  not  have  left  him  if  I 
was  not  sure  I  was  doing  him  harm  by  staying.  But  the  doctor 
is  to  wire  me  if  he  gets  any  worse,  and  only  if  he  does.  I  am  to 
believe  that  no  news  is  good  news." 

But  this  meeting  with  Lloyd  and  the  intense  excitement  of 
those  few  moments  by  the  canal  had  quite  driven  from  Bennett's 
mind  the  fact  that  he  had  not  forwarded  his  present  address  either 
to  Ferriss  or  to  his  doctor.  He  had  so  intended  that  morning,  but 
all  the  faculties  of  his  mind  were  suddenly  concentrated  upon  an- 


A  Man's  Woman  347 

other  issue.  For  the  moment  he  believed  that  he  had  actually 
written  to  Dr.  Pitts,  as  he  had  planned,  and  when  he  thought  of  his 
intended  message  at  all,  thought  of  it  as  an  accomplished  fact.  The 
matter  did  not  occur  to  him  again. 

As  he  walked  by  Lloyd's  side,  listening  to  her  and  talking  to  her, 
snapping  the  whip  the  while,  or  flicking  the  heads  from  the  mullein 
stalks  by  the  roadside  with  its  lash,  he  was  thinking  how  best  he 
might  say  to  her  what  he  had  come  from  the  city  to  say.  To  lead 
up  to  his  subject,  to  guide  the  conversation,  to  prepare  the  right 
psychological  moment  skilfully  and  without  apparent  effort,  were 
manoeuvres  in  the  game  that  Bennett  ignored  and  despised.  He 
knew  only  that  he  loved  her,  that  she  was  there  at  his  side,  that  the 
object  of  all  his  desires  and  hopes  was  within  his  reach.  Straight 
as  a  homing  pigeon  he  went  to  his  goal." 

"Miss  Searight,"  he  began,  his  harsh,  bass  voice  pitched  even 
lower  than  usual,  "what  do  you  think  I  am  down  here  for?  This 
is  not  the  only  part  of  the  world  where  I  could  recuperate,  I  sup 
pose,  and  as  for  spending  God's  day  in  chipping  at  stones,  like  a 
professor  of  a  young  ladies'  seminary" — he  hurled  the  hammer 
from  him  into  the  bushes — "that  for  geology !  Now  we  can  talk. 
You  know  very  well  that  I  love  you,  and  I  believe  that  you  love  me. 
I  have  come  down  here  to  ask  you  to  marry  me." 

Lloyd  might  have  done  any  one  of  a  dozen  things — might  have 
answered  in  any  one  of  a  dozen  ways.  But  what  she  did  do,  what 
she  did  say,  took  Bennett  completely  by  surprise.  A  little  coldly  and 
very  calmly  she  answered : 

"You  believe — you  say  you  believe  that  I — "  she  broke  off,  then 
began  again:  "It  is  not  right  for  you  to  say  that  to  me.  I  have 
never  led  you  to  believe  that  I  cared  for  you.  Whatever  our  rela 
tions  are  to  be,  let  us  have  that  understood  at  once." 

Bennett  uttered  an  impatient  exclamation.  "I  am  not  good  at 
fencing  and  quibbling,"  he  declared.  "I  tell  you  that  I  love  you 
with  all  my  heart.  I  tell  you  that  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife,  and  I 
tell  you  that  I  know  you  do  love  me.  You  are  not  like  other 
women;  why  should  you  coquette  with  me?  Good  God!  are  you 
not  big  enough  to  be  above  such  things  ?  I  know  you  are.  Of  all 
the  people  in  the  world  we  two  ought  to  be  above  pretence,  ought 
to  understand  each  other.  If  I  did  not  know  you  cared  for  me  I 
would  not  have  spoken." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  answered.  "I  think  we  had  bet 
ter  talk  of  other  things  this  morning." 


A  Man's  Woman 

"I  came  down  here  to  talk  of  just  this  and  nothing  else,"  he 

declared. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said,  squaring  her  shoulders  with  a  quick, 
brisk  movement,  "we  will  talk  of  it.    You  say  we  two  should  under 
stand  each  other.    Let  us  come  to  the  bottom  of  things  at  once, 
despise  quibbling  and  fencing  as  much,  perhaps,  as  you.     Tell  me 
how  have  I  ever  led  you  to  believe  that  I  cared  for  you?" 

"At  a  time  when  our  last  hope  was  gone,"  answered  Bennett, 
meeting  her  eyes,  "when  I  was  very  near  to  death  and  thought 
that  I  should  go  to  my  God  within  the  day,  I  was  made  happier  than 
I  think  I  ever  was  in  my  life  before  by  finding  out  that  I  was  dear 
to  you — that  you  loved  me." 

Lloyd  searched  his  face  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  bewilder 
ment. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  repeated. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Bennett  with  sudden  vehemence,  "you  could 
say  it  to  Ferriss ;  why  can't  you  say  it  to  me  ?" 

"To  Mr.  Ferriss?" 

"You  could  tell  him  that  you  cared." 

"I — tell  Mr.  Ferriss — that  I  cared  for  you  ?"  She  began  to  smile. 
"You  are  a  little  absurd,  Mr.  Bennett." 

"And  I  can  not  see  why  you  should  deny  it  now.  Or  if  any 
thing  has  caused  you  to  change  your  mind — to  be  sorry  for  what 
you  said,  why  should  I  not  know  it?  Even  a  petty  thief  may  be 
heard  in  his  own  defence.  I  loved  you  because  I  believed  you  to  be 
a  woman,  a  great,  strong,  noble,  man's  woman,  above  little  things, 
above  the  little,  niggling,  contemptible  devices  of  the  drawing-room. 
I  loved  you  because  the  great  things  of  the  world  interested  you, 
because  you  had  no  place  in  your  life  for  petty  graces,  petty  affecta 
tions,  petty  deceits  and  shams  and  insincerities.  If  you  did  not  love 
me,  why  did  you  say  so?  If  you  do  love  me  now,  why  should  you 
not  admit  it?  Do  you  think  you  can  play  with  me?  Do  you  think 
you  can  coquette  with  me?  If  you  were  small  enough  to  stoop  to 
such  means,  do  you  think  I  am  small  enough  to  submit  to  them  ?  I 
have  known  Ferriss  too  well.  I  know  him  to  be  incapable  of  such 
falsity  as  you  would  charge  him  with.  To  have  told  such  a  lie,  such 
an  uncalled-for,  useless,  gratuitous  lie,  is  a  thing  he  could  not  have 
done.  You  must  have  told  him  that  you  cared.  Why  aren't  you 
— you  of  all  women — brave  enough,  strong  enough,  big  enough  to 
stand  by  your  words?" 

"Because  I  never  said  them.    What  do  you  think  of  me?    Even 


A  Man's  Woman  349 

if  I  did  care,  do  you  suppose  I  would  say  as  much — and  to  another 
man?  Oh!"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  indignation,  "let's  talk  of 
something  else.  This  is  too — preposterous." 

"You  never  told  Ferriss  that  you  cared  for  me?" 

"No." 

Bennett  took  off  his  cap.  "Very  well,  then.  That  is  enough. 
Good-by,  Miss  Searight." 

"Do  you  believe  I  told  Mr.  Ferriss  I  loved  you?" 

"I  do  not  believe  that  the-  man  who  has  been  more  to  me  than  a 
brother  is  a  liar  and  a  rascal." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Bennett." 

They  had  come  rather  near  to  the  farmhouse  by  this  time. 
Without  another  word  Bennett  gave  the  whip  and  lap-robe  into 
her  hands,  and,  turning  upon  his  heel,  walked  away  down  the  road. 

Lloyd  told  Lewis  as  much  of  the  morning's  accident  by  the  canal 
as  was  necessary,  and  gave  orders  about  the  dog-cart  and  the  bury 
ing  of  Rox.  Then  slowly,  her  eyes  fixed  and  wide,  she  went  up 
to  her  own  room  and,  without  removing  either  her  hat  or  her  gloves, 
sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  letting  her  hands  fall  limply  into 
her  lap,  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  white  curtain  just  stirring  at  the 
open  window. 

She  could  not  say  which  hurt  her  most — that  Ferriss  had  told 
the  lie  or  that  Bennett  believed  it.  But  why,  in  heaven's  name  why, 
had  Ferriss  so  spoken  to  Bennett;  what  object  had  he  in  view;  what 
had  he  to  gain  by  it?  Why  had  Ferriss,  the  man  who  loved  her, 
chosen  so  to  humiliate  her,  to  put  her  in  a  position  so  galling  to  her 
pride,  her  dignity?  Bennett,  too,  loved  her.  How  could  he  be 
lieve  that  she  had  so  demeaned  herself? 

She  had  been  hurt  and  to  the  heart,  at  a  point  where  she  be 
lieved  herself  most  unassailable,  and  he  who  held  the  weapon  was 
the  man  that  with  all  the  heart  of  her  and  soul  of  her  she  loved. 

Much  of  the  situation  was  all  beyond  her.  Try  as  she  would  she 
could  not  understand.  One  thing,  however,  she  saw  clearly,  un 
mistakably:  Bennett  believed  that  she  loved  him,  believed  that  she 
had  told  as  much  to  Ferriss,  and  that  when  she  had  denied  all 
knowledge  of  Ferriss's  lie  she  was  only  coquetting  with  him.  She 
knew  Bennett  and  his  character  well  enough  to  realize  that  an  idea 
once  rooted  in  his  mind  was  all  but  ineradicable.  Bennett  was  not 
a  man  of  easy  changes ;  nothing  mobile  about  him. 

The  thought  of  this  belief  of  Bennett's  was  intolerable.  As  she 
sat  there  alone  in  her  white  room  the  dull  crimson  of  her  cheeks 


A  Man's  Woman 

flamed  suddenly  scarlet,  and  with  a  quick,  involuntary  gesture  she 
threw  her  hand,  palm  outward,  across  her  face  to  hide  it  from  the 
sunlight.  She  went  quickly  from  one  mood  to  another.  Now  her 
anger  grew  suddenly  hot  against  Ferriss.  How  had  he  dared? 
How  had  he  dared  to  put  this  indignity,  this  outrageous  insult,  upon 
her?  Now  her  wrath  turned  upon  Bennett.  What  audacity  had 
been  his  to  believe  that  she  would  so  forget  herself?  She  set  her 
teeth  in  her  impotent  anger,  rising  to  her  feet,  her  hands  clinching, 
tears  of  sheer  passion  starting  to  her  eyes. 

For  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  she  kept  to  her  room, 
pacing  the  floor  from  wall  to  wall,  trying  to  think  clearly,  to  re 
solve  upon  something  that  would  readjust  the  situation,  that  would 
give  her  back  her  peace  of  mind,  her  dignity,  and  her  happiness  of 
the  early  morning.  For  now  the  great  joy  that  had  come  to  her 
in  his  safe  return  was  all  but  gone.  For  one  moment  she  even  told 
herself  she  could  not  love  him,  but  the  next  was  willing  to  admit 
that  it  was  only  because  of  her  love  of  him,  as  strong  and  deep  as 
ever,  that  the  humiliation  cut  so  deeply  and  cruelly  now.  Ferriss 
had  lied  about  her,  and  Bennett  had  believed  the  lie.  To  meet 
Bennett  again  under  such  circumstances  was  not  to  be  thought  of 
for  one  moment.  Her  vacation  was  spoiled ;  the  charm  of  the 
country  had  vanished.  Lloyd  returned  to  the  city  the  next  day. 

She  found  that  she  was  glad  to  get  back  to  her  work.  The  sub 
dued  murmur  of  the  city  that  hourly  assaulted  her  windows  was  a 
relief  to  her  ears  after  the  profound  and  numbing  silence  of  the 
country.  The  square  was  never  so  beautiful  as  at  this  time  of 
summer,  and  even  the  restless  shadow  pictures,  that  after  dark  were 
thrown  upon  the  ceiling  of  her  room  by  the  electrics  shining  through 
the  great  elms  in  the  square  below,  were  a  pleasure. 

On  the  morning  after  her  arrival  and  as  she  was  unpacking  her 
trunk  Miss  Douglass  came  into  her  room  and  seated  herself,  ac 
cording  to  her  custom,  on  the  porch.  After  some  half-hour's  give- 
and-take  talk,  the  fever  nurse  said: 

"Do  you  remember,  Lloyd,  what  I  told  you  about  typhoid  in  the 
spring — that  it  was  almost  epidemic?" 

Lloyd  nodded,  turning  about  from  her  trunk,  her  arms  full  of 
dresses. 

"It's  worse  than  ever  now,"  continued  Miss  Douglass;  "three 
of  our  people  have  been  on  cases  only  in  the  short  time  you  have 
been  away.  And  there's  a  case  out  in  Medford  that  has  killed  one 
nurse." 


A  Man's  Woman  351 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Lloyd  in  some  astonishment,  "it  seems  to 
me  that  one  should  confine  typhoid  easily  enough." 

"Not  always,  not  always,"  answered  the  other;  "a  virulent  case 
would  be  quite  as  bad  as  yellow  fever  or  smallpox.  You  remember 
when  we  were  at  the  hospital  Miss  Helmuth,  that  little  Polish 
nurse,  contracted  it  from  her  case  and  died  even  before  her  patient 
did.  Then  there  was  Eva  Blayne.  She  very  nearly  died.  I  did 
like  the  way  Miss  Wakeley  took  this  case  out  at  Medford  even 
when  the  other  nurse  had  died.  She  never  hesitated  for — " 

"Has  one  of  our  people  got  this  case?"  inquired  Lloyd. 

"Of  course.    Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

"I  hope  we  cure  it,"  said  Lloyd,  her  trunk-tray  in  her  hands. 
"I  don't  think  we  have  ever  lost  a  case  yet  when  good  nursing  could 
pull  it  through,  and  in  typhoid  the  whole  treatment  really  is  the 
nursing." 

"Lloyd,"  said  Miss  Douglass  decisively,  "I  would  give  any 
thing  I  can  think  of  now  to  have  been  on  that  hip  disease  case  of 
yours  and  have  brought  my  patient  through  as  you  did.  You 
should  hear  what  Dr.  Street  says  of  you — and  the  little  girl's 
father.  By  the  way,  I  had  nearly  forgotten.  Hattie  Campbell — 
that's  her  name,  isn't  it  ? — telephoned  to  know  if  you  had  come  back 
from  the  country  yet.  That  was  yesterday.  I  said  we  expected 
you  to-day,  and  she  told  me  to  say  she  was  coming  to  see  you." 

The  next  afternoon  toward  three  o'clock  Hattie  and  her  father 
drove  to  the  square  in  an  open  carriage,  Hattie  carrying  a  great 
bunch  of  violets  for  Lloyd.  The  little  invalid  was  well  on  the  way 
to  complete  recovery  by  now.  Sometimes  she  was  allowed  to 
walk  a  little,  but  as  often  as  not  her  maid  wheeled  her  about  in  an 
invalid's  chair.  She  drove  out  in  the  carriage  frequently  by  way 
of  exercise.  She  would,  no  doubt,  always  limp  a  little,  but  in  the 
end  it  was  certain  she  would  be  sound  and  strong.  For  Hattie  and 
her  father  Lloyd  had  become  a  sort  of  tutelary  semi-deity.  In  what 
was  left  of  the  family  she  had  her  place,  hardly  less  revered  than 
even  the  dead  wife.  Campbell  himself,  who  had  made  a  fortune  in 
Bessemer  steel,  a  well-looking,  well-groomed  gentleman,  smooth- 
shaven  and  with  hair  that  was  none  too  gray,  more  than  once 
caught  himself  standing  before  Lloyd's  picture  that  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece  in  Hattie's  room,  looking  at  it  vaguely  as  he  clipped 
the  nib  from  his  cigar. 

But  on  this  occasion  as  the  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the 
ample  pile  of  the  house  Hattie  called  out,  "Oh,  there  she  is  now," 


A  Man's  Woman 

and  Lloyd  came  down  the  steps,  carrying  her  nurse's  bag  in  her 

hand. 

"Are  we  too  late?"  began  Hattie;  "are  you  going  out;  are  you 
on  a  case?  Is  that  why  you've  got  your  bag?  We  thought  you 
were  on  a  vacation." 

Campbell,  yielding  to  a  certain  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  Lloyd 
should  stand  on  the  curb  while  he  remained  seated,  got  out  of  the 
carriage  and  stood  at  her  side,  gravely  listening  to  the  talk  between 
the  nurse  and  her  one-time  patient.  Lloyd  was  obliged  to  explain, 
turning  now  to  Hattie,  now  to  her  father.  She  told  them  that  she 
was  in  something  of  a  hurry.  She  had  just  been  specially  called 
to  take  a  very  bad  case  of  typhoid  fever  in  a  little  suburb  of  the 
city,  called  Medford.  It  was  not  her  turn  to  go,  but  the  physicians 
in  charge  of  the  case,  as  sometimes  happened,  had  asked  especially 
for  her. 

"One  of  our  people,  a  young  woman  named  Miss  Wakeley,  has 
been  on  this  case,"  she  continued,  "but  it  seems  she  has  allowed 
herself  to  contract  the  disease  herself.  She  went  to  the  hospital 
this  noon." 

Campbell,  his  gravity  suddenly  broken  up,  exclaimed: 

"Surely,  Miss  Searight,  this  is  not  the  same  case  I  read  of  in 
yesterday's  paper — it  must  be,  too — Medford  was  the  name  of 
the  place.  That  case  has  killed  one  nurse  already,  and  now  the 
second  one  is  down.  Don't  tell  me  you  are  going  to  take  the 
same  case." 

"It  is  the  same  case,"  answered  Lloyd,  "and,  of  course,  I  am 
going  to  take  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  nurse  doing  otherwise? 
Why,  it  would  seem — seem  so — funny — " 

There  was  no  dissuading  her,  and  Campbell  and  Hattie  soon 
ceased  even  to  try.  She  was  impatient  to  be  gone.  The  station  was 
close  at  hand,  and  she  would  not  hear  of  taking  the  carriage  thither. 
However,  before  she  left  them  she  recurred  again  to  the  subject  of 
her  letter  to  Mr.  Campbell,  and  then  and  there  it  was  decided  that 
Hattie  and  her  maid  should  spend  the  following  ten  days  at  Lloyd's 
place  in  Bannister.  The  still  country  air,  now  that  Hattie  was  able 
to  take  the  short  journey,  would  be  more  to  her  than  many  medi 
cines,  and  the  ponies  and  Lloyd's  phaeton  would  be  left  there  with 
Lewis  for  her  use. 

"And  write  often,  won't  you,  Miss  Searight?"  exclaimed  Hattie 
as  Lloyd  was  saying  good-by.  Lloyd  shook  her  head. 

"Not  that  of  all  things,"  she  answered.    "If  I  did  that  we  might 


A   Man's  Woman  353 

have  you,  too,  down  with  typhoid.  But  you  may  write  to  me,  and 
I  hope  you  will,"  and  she  gave  Hattie  her  new  address. 

"Harriet,"  said  Campbell  as  the  carriage  drove  back  across  the 
square,  the  father  and  daughter  waving  their  hands  to  Lloyd,  briskly 
on  her  way  to  the  railroad  station,  "Harriet." 

"Yes,  papa." 

"There  goes  a  noble  woman.  Pluck,  intelligence,  strong  will — 
she  has  them  all — and  a  great  big  heart  that — heart  that — "  He 
clipped  the  end  of  a  cigar  thoughtfully  and  fell  silent. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  Hattie  was  sitting  in  her  little  wheel 
chair  on  the  veranda  of  Mrs.  Applegate's  house  watching  Charley- 
Joe  hunting  grasshoppers  underneath  the  currant  bushes,  she  was 
surprised  by  the  sharp  closing  of  the  front  gate.  A  huge  man  with 
one  squint  eye  and  a  heavy,  square-cut  jaw  was  coming  up  the 
walk,  followed  by  a  strange-looking  dog.  Charley-Joe  withdrew 
swiftly  to  his  particular  hole  under  the  veranda,  moving  rapidly, 
his  body  low  to  the  ground,  taking  an  unnecessary  number  of  very 
short  steps. 

The  little  city-bred  girl  distinguished  the  visitor  from  a  coun 
tryman  at  once.  Hattie  had  ideas  of  her  own  as  to  propriety,  and 
so  rose  to  her  feet  as  Bennett  came  up,  and  after  a  moment's  hesi 
tation  made  him  a  little  bow.  Bennett  at  once  gravely  took  off  his 
cap. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said  as  though  Hattie  were  twenty-five  instead 
of  twelve.  "Is  Miss  Searight  at  home?" 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Hattie,  delighted,  "do  you  know  Miss  Sea- 
right?  She  was  my  nurse  when  I  was  so  sick — because  you  know 
I  had  hip  disease  and  there  was  an  operation.  No,  she's  not  here 
any  more.  She's  gone  away,  gone  back  to  the  city." 

"Gone  back  to  the  city?" 

"Yes,  three  or  four  days  ago.  But  I'm  going  to  write  to  her 
this  afternoon.  Shall  I  say  who  called?"  Then,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  she  added,  "I  guess  I  had  better  introduce  myself.  My 
name  is  Harriet  Campbell,  and  my  papa  is  Craig  V.  Campbell,  of 
the  Hercules  Wrought  Steel  Company  in  the  city.  Won't  you  have 
a  chair?" 

The  little  convalescent  and  the  arctic  explorer  shook  hanks  with 
great  solemnity. 

"I'm  so  pleased  tojneet  you,"  said  Bennett.  "I  haven't  a  card, 
but  my  name  is  Ward  Bennett — of  the  'Freja'  expedition,"  he  added. 
But,  to  his  relief,  the  little  girl  had  not  heard  of  him. 


A   Man's  Woman 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I'll  tell  Miss  Searight  Mr.  Bennett 
called." 

"No,"  he  replied,  hesitatingly,  "no,  you  needn't  do  that." 

"Why,  she  won't  answer  my  letter,  you  know,"  explained  Hattie, 
"because  she  is  afraid  her  letters  would  give  me  typhoid  fever,  that 
they  might" — she  continued  carefully,  hazarding  a  remembered 
phrase — "carry  the  con-ta-gion.  You  see,  she  has  gone  to  nurse  a 
dreadful  case  of  typhoid  fever  out  at  Medford,  near  the  city,  and 
we're  so  worried  and  anxious  about  her — papa  and  I.  One  nurse 
that  had  this  case  has  died  already  and  another  one  has  caught  the 
disease  and  is  very  sick,  and  Miss  Searight,  though  she  knew  just 
how  dangerous  it  was,  would  go,  just  like — like — "  Hattie  hesi 
tated,  then  confused  memories  of  her  school  reader  coming  to  her, 
finished  with  "like  Casabianca." 

"Oh,"  said  Bennett,  turning  his  head  so  as  to  fix  her  with  his 
one  good  eye.  "She  has  gone  to  nurse  a  typhoid  fever  patient,  has 
she?" 

"Yes,  and  papa  told  me — "  and  Hattie  became  suddenly  very 
grave,  "that  we  might — might — oh,  dear — never  see  her  again." 

"Hum!  Whereabouts  is  this  place  in  Medford?  She  gave  you 
her  address;  what  is  it?"  Hattie  told  him,  and  he  took  himself 
abruptly  away. 

Bennett  had  gone  some  little  distance  down  the  road  before  the 
real  shock  came  upon  him.  Lloyd  was  in  a  position  of  imminent 
peril;  her  life  was  in  the  issue.  With  blind,  unreasoned  directness 
he  leaped  at  once  to  this  conclusion,  and  as  he  strode  along  with 
teeth  and  fists  tight  shut  he  kept  muttering  to  himself:  "She  may 
die,  she  may  die — we — we  may  never  see  her  again."  Then  sudden 
ly  came  the  fear,  the  sickening  sink  of  heart,  the  choke  at  the  throat, 
first  the  tightening  and  then  the  sudden  relaxing  of  all  the  nerves. 
Lashed  and  harried  by  the  sense  of  a  fearful  calamity,  an  unspeak 
able  grief  that  was  pursuing  him,  Bennett  did  not  stop  to  think, 
to  reflect.  He  chose  instantly  to  believe  that  Lloyd  was  near  her 
death,  and  once  the  idea  was  fixed  in  his  brain  it  was  not  thereafter 
lo  be  reasoned  away.  Suddenly,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  he  stopped, 
his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  boot-heel  digging  into  the  ground. 
"Now,  then,"  he  exclaimed,  "what's  to  be  done?" 

Just  one  thing:  Lloyd  must  leave  the  case  at  once,  that  very 
day  if  it  were  possible.  He  must  save  he/;  must  turn  her  back 
from  this  destruction  toward  which  she  was  rushing,  impelled  by 
such  a  foolish,  mistaken  notion  of  duty. 


A  Man's  Woman 


355 


"Yes,"  he  said,  "there's  just  that  to  be  done,  and,  by  God !  it 
shall  be  done." 

But  would  Lloyd  be  turned  back  from  a  course  she  had  chosen 
for  herself?  Could  he  persuade  her?  Then  with  this  thought  of 
possible  opposition  Bennett's  resolve  all  at  once  tightened  to  the 
sticking  point.  Never  in  the  darkest  hours  of  his  struggle  with  the 
Arctic  ice  had  his  determination  grown  so  fierce ;  never  had  his 
resolution  so  girded  itself,  so  nerved  itself  to  crush  down  resistance. 
The  force  of  his  will  seemed  brusquely  to  be  quadrupled  and  dec 
upled.  He  would  do  as  he  desired ;  come  what  might  he  would  gain 
his  end.  He  would  stop  at  nothing,  hesitate  at  nothing.  It  would 
probably  be  difficult  to  get  her  from  her  post,  but  with  all  his  giant's 
strength  Bennett  set  himself  to  gain  her  safety. 

A  great  point  that  he  believed  was  in  his  favor,  a  consideration 
that  influenced  him  to  adopt  so  irrevocable  a  resolution,  was  his 
belief  that  Lloyd  loved  him.  Bennett  was  not  a  woman's  man. 
Men  he  could  understand  and  handle  like  so  many  manikins,  but 
the  nature  of  his  life  and  work  did  not  conduce  to  a  knowledge  of 
women.  Bennett  did  not  understand  them.  In  his  interview  with 
"Lloyd  when  she  had  so  strenuously  denied  Ferriss's  story  Bennett 
could  not  catch  the  ring  of  truth.  It  had  gotten  into  his  mind  that 
Lloyd  loved  him.  He  believed  easily  what  he  wanted  to  believe, 
and  his  faith  in  Lloyd's  love  for  him  had  become  a  part  and  parcel 
of  his  fundamental  idea  of  things,  not  readily  to  be  driven  out  even 
by  Lloyd  herself. 

Bennett's  resolution  was  taken.  Never  had  he  failed  in  accom 
plishing  that  upon  which  he  set  his  mind.  He  would  not  fail  now. 
Beyond  a  certain  limit — a  limit  which  now  he  swiftly  reached  and 
passed — Bennett's  determination  to  carry  his  point  became,  as  it 
were,  a  sort  of  obsession;  the  sweep  of  the  tremendous  power  he 
unchained  carried  his  own  self  along  with  it  in  its  resistless  onrush. 
At  such  times  there  was  no  light  of  reason  in  his  actions.  He  saw 
only  his  point,  beheld  only  his  goal;  deaf  to  all  voices  that  would 
call  him  back,  blind  to  all  considerations  that  would  lead  him  to 
swerve,  reckless  of  everything  that  he  trampled  underfoot,  he  stuck 
to  his  aim  until  that  aim  was  an  accomplished  fact.  When  the  grip 
of  the  Ice  had  threatened  to  close  upon  him  and  crush  him,  he  had 
hurled  himself  against  its  barriers  with  an  energy  and  resolve  to 
conquer  that  was  little  short  of  directed  frenzy.  So  it  was  with 
him  now. 


A  Man's  Woman 

When  Lloyd  had  parted  from  the  Campbells  in  the  square  before 
the  house,  she  had  gone  directly  to  the  railway  station  of  a  suburban 
line,  and,  within  the  hour,  was  on  her  way  to  Medford.  As  always 
happened  when  an  interesting  case  was  to  be  treated,  her  mind 
became  gradually  filled  with  it  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 
The  Campbells,  and  Bennett's  ready  acceptance  ol  a  story  that  put 
her  in  so  humiliating  a  light,  were  forgotten  as  the  train  swept  her 
from  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  city  out  into  the  green  reaches  of 
country  to  the  southward.  What  had  been  done  upon  the  case  she 
had  no  means  of  telling.  She  only  knew  that  the  case  was  of  un 
usual  virulence  and  well  advanced.  It  had  killed  one  nurse  already 
and  seriously  endangered  the  life  of  another,  but  so  far  from  re 
flecting  on  the  danger  to  herself,  Lloyd  felt  a  certain  exhilaration 
in  the  thought  that  she  was  expected  to  succeed  where  others  had 
succumbed.  Another  battle  with  the  Enemy  was  at  hand,  the  Ene 
my  who,  though  conquered  on  a  hundred  fields,  must  inevitably 
trumph  in  the  end.  Once  again  this  Enemy  had  stooped  and  caught 
a  human  being  in  his  cold  grip.  Once  again  Life  and  Death  were  at 
grapples,  and  Death  was  strong,  and  from  out  the  struggles  a  cry 
had  come — had  come  to  her — a  cry  lor  help. 

All  the  exuberance  of  battle  grew  big  within  her  breast.  She 
was  impatient  to  be  there — there  at  hand — to  face  the  Enemy 
again  across  the  sick-bed,  where  she  had  so  often  faced  and  out 
fought  him  before;  and,  matching  her  force  against  his  force,  her 
obstinacy  against  his  strength — the  strength  that  would  pull  the 
life  from  her  grasp — her  sleepless  vigilance  against  his  stealth,  her 
intelligence  against  his  cunning,  her  courage  against  his  terrors, 
her  resistance  against  his  attack,  her  skill  against  his  strategy,  her 
science  against  his  world-old,  world-wide  experience,  win  the  fight, 
save  the  life,  hold  firm  against  his  slow,  resistless  pull,  and  triumph 
again,  if  it  was  only  for  the  day. 

Succeed  she  would  and  must.  Her  inborn  obstinacy,  her  sturdy 
refusal  to  yield  her  ground,  whatever  it  should  be,  her  stubborn 
power  of  resistance,  her  tenacity  of  her  chosen  course,  came  to  her 
aid  as  she  drew  swiftly  near  to  the  spot  whereon  the  battle  would 
be  fought.  Mentally  she  braced  herself,  holding  back  with  all  her 
fine,  hard-tempered,  native  strefigth.  No,  she  would  not  yield  the 
life  to  the  Enemy;  no,  she  would  not  give  up;  no,  she  would  not 
recede.  Let  the  Enemy  do  his  worst— she  was  strong  against  his 
efforts. 

At  Medford,  which  she  reached  toward  four  in  the  afternoon, 


A  Man's  Woman  357 

after  an  hour's  ride  from  the  city,  she  found  a  conveyance  waiting 
for  her,  and  was  driven  rapidly  through  streets  bordered  with 
villas  and  closely  shaven  lawns  to  a  fair-sized  country  seat  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  The  housekeeper  met  her  at  the  door  with 
the  information  that  the  doctor  was,  at  the  moment,  in  the  sick 
room,  and  had  left  orders  that  the  nurse  should  be  brought  to  him 
the  moment  she  arrived.  The  housekeeper  showed  Lloyd  the  way 
to  the  second  landing,  knocking  upon  the  half-open  door  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  and  ushering  her  in  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

Lloyd  took  in  the  room  at  a  glance — the  closely  drawn  curtains, 
the  screen  between  the  bed  and  the  windows,  the  doctor  standing 
on  the  hearth-rug,  and  the  fever-inflamed  face  of  the  patient  on  the 
pillow.  Then  all  her  power  of  self-repression  could  not  keep  her 
from  uttering  a  smothered  exclamation. 

For  she,  the  woman  whom,  with  all  the  savage  energy  of  him, 
Bennett  loved,  had,  at  peril  of  her  life,  come  to  nurse  Bennett's 
nearest  friend,  the  man  of  all  others  dear  to  him — Richard  Ferriss. 


VI 

Two  days  after  Dr.  Pitts  had  brought  Ferriss  to  his  country 
house  in  the  outskirts  of  Medford  he  had  been  able  to  diagnose  his 
sickness  as  typhoid  fever,  and  at  once  had  set  about  telegraphing 
the  fact  to  Bennett.  Then  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  did  not 
know  where  Bennett  had  gone.  Bennett  had  omitted  notifying  him 
of  his  present  whereabouts,  and,  acting  upon  Dr.  Pitts's  advice,  had 
hidden  himself  away  from  everybody.  Neither  at  his  club  nor  at 
his  hotel,  where  his  mail  accumulated  in  extraordinary  quantities, 
had  any  forwarding  address  been  left.  Bennett  would  not  even 
know  that  Ferriss  had  been  moved  to  Medford.  So  much  the  worse. 
It  could  not  be  helped.  There  was  nothing  for  the  doctor  to  do 
but  to  leave  Bennett  in  ignorance  and  go  ahead  and  fight  for  the 
life  of  Ferriss  as  best  he  could.  Pitts  arranged  for  a  brother  phy 
sician  to  take  over  his  practice,  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
Ferriss.  And  Ferriss  sickened  and  sickened,  and  went  steadily  from 
bad  to  worse.  The  fever  advanced  regularly  to  a  certain  stage,  a 
stage  of  imminent  danger,  and  there  paused.  Rarely  had  Pitts  been 
called  upon  to  fight  a  more  virulent  form  of  the  disease. 

What  made  matters  worse  was  that  Ferriss  hung  on  for  so  long 


A  Man's  Woman 

a  time  without  change  one  way  or  another.  Pitts  had  long  since 
been  convinced  of  ulceration  in  the  membrane  of  the  intestines,  but 
it  astonished  him  that  this  symptom  persisted  so  long  .without  signs 
either  of  progressing  or  diminishing.  The  course  of  the  disease 
was  unusually  slow.  The  first  nurse  had  already  had  time  to  sicken 
and  die;  a  second  had  been  infected,  and  yet  Ferriss  "hung  on," 
neither  sinking  nor  improving,  yet  at  every  hour  lying  perilously 
near  death.  It  was  not  often  that  death  and  life  locked  horns  for 
so  long,  not  often  that  the  chance  was  so  even.  Many  was  the  hour, 
many  was  the  moment,  when  a  hair  would  have  turned  the  balance, 
and  yet  the  balance  was  preserved. 

At  her  abrupt  recognition  of  Ferriss,  in  this  patient  whom  she 
had  been  summoned  to  nurse,  and  whose  hold  upon  life  was  so  piti 
fully  weak,  Lloyd's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  then  sank  ominously 
in  her  breast.  Her  first  emotion  was  one  of  boundless  self-reproach. 
Why  had  she  not  known  of  this?  Why  had  she  not  questioned 
Bennett  more  closely  as  to  his  friend's  sickness?  Might  she  not 
have  expected  something  like  this?  Was  not  typhoid  the  one  evil 
to  be  feared  and  foreseen  after  experiences  such  as  Ferriss  had 
undergone — the  fatigue  and  privations  of  the  march  over  the  ice, 
and  the  subsequent  months  aboard  the  steam  whaler,  with  its  bad 
food,  its  dirt,  and  its  inevitable  overcrowding? 

And  while  she  had  been  idling  in  the  country,  this  man,  whom 
she  had  known  since  her  girlhood  better  and  longer  than  any  of  her 
few  acquaintances,  had  been  struck  down,  and  day  by  day  had 
weakened  and  sickened  and  wasted,  until  now,  at  any  hour,  at  any 
moment,  the  life  might  be  snuffed  out  like  the  light  of  a  spent  candle. 
What  a  miserable  incompetent  had  she  been !  That  day  in  the  park 
when  she  had  come  upon  him,  so  weak  and  broken  and  far  spent, 
why  had  she  not,  with  all  her  training  and  experience,  known  that 
even  then  the  flame  was  flickering  down  to  the  socket,  that  a  link  in 
the  silver  chain  was  weakening?  Now,  perhaps,  it  was  too  late. 
But  quick  her  original  obstinacy  rose  up  in  protest.  No !  she  would 
not  yield  the  life.  No,  no,  no ;  again  and  a  thousand  times  no !  He 
belonged  to  her.  Others  she  had  saved,  others  far  less  dear  to  her 
than  Ferriss.  Her  last  patient— the  little  girl— she  had  caught  back 
from  death  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and  of  all  men  would  she  not 
save  Ferriss?  In  such  sickness  as  this  it  was  the  nurse  and  not 
the  doctor  who  must  be  depended  upon.  And,  once  again,  never  so 
strong,  never  so  fine,  never  so  glorious,  her  splendid  independence, 
her  pride  in  her  own  strength,  her  indomitable  self-reliance  leaped 


A  Man's  Woman 


359 


in  her  breast,  leaped  and  stood  firm,  hard  as  tempered  steel,  head 
to  the  Enemy,  daring  the  assault,  defiant,  immovable,  unshaken  in 
its  resolve,  unconquerable  in  the  steadfast  tenacity  of  its  purpose. 

The  story  that  Ferriss  had  told  to  Bennett,  that  uncalled-for  and 
inexplicable  falsehood,  was  a  thing  forgotten.  Death  stood  at  the 
bedhead,  and  in  that  room  the  little  things  of  life  had  no  place.  The 
king  was  holding  court,  and  the  swarm  of  small,  every-day  issues, 
like  a  crowd  of  petty  courtiers,  were  not  admitted  to  his  presence. 
Ferriss's  life  was  in  danger.  Lloyd  saw  no  more  than  that.  At  once 
she  set  about  the  work. 

In  a  few  rapid  sentences  exchanged  in  low  voices  between  her 
and  the  doctor  Lloyd  made  herself  acquainted  with  the  case. 

"We've  been  using  the  ice-pack  and  wet-pack  to  bring  down  the 
temperature  in  place  of  the  cold  bath,"  the  doctor  explained.  "I'm 
afraid  of  pericarditis." 

"Quinine?"  inquired  Lloyd. 

"From  twenty  to  forty  grains  in  the  morning  and  evening. 
Here's  the  temperature  chart  for  the  last  week.  If  we  reach  this 
point  in  axilla  again — "  he  indicated  one  hundred  and  two  degrees 
with  a  thumb-nail — "we'll  have  to  risk  the  cold  bath,  but  only  in 
that  case." 

"And  the  tympanites?" 

Dr.  Pitts  put  his  chin  in  the  air. 

"Grave — there's  an  intestinal  ulcer,  no  doubt  of  it,  and  if  it 
perforates — well,  we  can  send  for  the  undertaker  then." 

"Has  he  had  hemorrhages?" 

"Two  in  the  first  week,  but  not  profuse — he  seemed  to  rally 
fairly  well  afterward.  We  have  been  injecting  ether  in  case  of 
anaemia.  Really,  Miss  Searight,  the  case  is  interesting,  but  wicked, 
wicked  as  original  sin.  Killed  off  my  first  nurse  out  of  hand- 
good  little  boy,  conscientious  enough;  took  no  care  of  himself;  ate 
his  meals  in  the  sick-room  against  my  wishes ;  off  he  went — dicrotic 
pulse,  diarrhoea,  vomiting,  hospital,  thrombosis  of  pulmonary  artery, 
pouf,  requiescat." 

"And  Miss  Wakeley?" 

"Knocked  under  yesterday,  and  she  was  fairly  saturated  with 
creolin  night  and  morning.     I  don't  know  how  it  happened.   . 
Well,  God  for  us  all.     Here  he  is— that's  the  point  for  us."     He 
glanced  toward  the  bed,  and  for  the  third  time  Lloyd  looked  at  the 
patient. 

Ferriss  was  in  a  quiet  delirium,  and,  at  intervals,  from  behind 


A  Man's  Woman 

his  lips,  dry  and  brown  and  fissured,  there  came  the  sounds  of  low 
and  indistinct  muttering.  Barring  a  certain  prominence  of  the 
cheek-bones,  his  face  was  not  very  wasted,  but  its  skin  was  a  strange, 
dusky  pallor.  The  cold  pack  was  about  his  head  like  a  sort  ,of 
caricatured  crown. 

"Well,"  repeated  Pitts  in  a  moment,  "I've  been  waiting  for  you 
to  come  to  get  a  little  rest.  Was  up  all  last  night.  Suppose  you 
take  over  charge." 

Lloyd  nodded  her  head,  removing  her  hat  and  gloves,  making 
herself  ready.  Pitts  gave  her  some  final  directions,  and  left  her 
alone  in  the  sick-room.  For  the  moment  there  was  nothing  to  do 
for  the  patient.  Lloyd  put  on  her  hospital  slippers  and  moved 
silently  about  the  room,  preparing  for  the  night,  and  making  some 
few  changes  in  the  matter  of  light  and  ventilation.  Then  for  a 
while  the  medicine  occupied  her  attention,  and  she  was  at  some 
pains  to  carefully  sort  out  the  antiseptics  and  disinfectants  from  the 
drugs  themselves.  These  latter  she  arranged  on  a  table  by  them 
selves — studying  the  labels — assuring  herself  of  their  uses.  Quinine 
for  the  regular  morning  and  evening  doses,  sulphonal  and  trional  for 
insomnia,  ether  for  injections  in  case  of  anaemia  after  hemorrhage, 
morphine  for  delirium,  citrate  of  caffein  for  weakness  of  the  heart, 
tincture  of  valerian  for  the  tympanites,  bismuth  to  relieve  nausea 
and  vomiting,  and  the  crushed  ice  wrapped  in  flannel  cloths  for  the 
cold  pack  in  the  event  of  hyperpyrexia. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  took  the  temperature  in  the  armpit, 
noted  the  condition  of  the  pulse,  and  managed  to  get  Ferriss — still 
in  his  quiet,  muttering  delirium — to  drink  a  glass  of  peptonized 
milk.  She  administered  the  quinine,  reading  the  label,  as  was  her 
custom,  three  times,  once  as  she  took  it  up,  again  as  she  measured 
the  dose,  and  a  last  time  as  she  returned  the  bottle  to  its  place. 
Everything  she  did,  every  minute  change  in  Ferriss's  condition, 
she  entered  upon  a  chart,  so  that  in  the  morning  when  Dr.  Pitts 
should  relieve  her  he  could  grasp  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

The  night  passed  without  any  but  the  expected  variations  of 
the  pulse  and  temperature,  though  toward  daylight  Lloyd  could 
fancy  that  Ferriss,  for  a  few  moments,  came  out  of  his  delirium  and 
was  conscious  of  his  surroundings.  For  a  few  seconds  his  eyes 
seemed  to  regain  something  of  their  intelligence,  and  his  glance 
moved  curiously  about  the  room.  But  Lloyd,  sitting  near  the  foot 
board  of  the  bed,  turned  her  head  from  him.  It  was  not  expedient 
that  Ferriss  should  recognize  her  now. 


A  Man's  Woman  361  ' 

\ 

Lloyd  could  not  but  commend  the  wisdom  of  bringing  Ferriss 
to  Dr.  Pitts's  own  house  in  so  quiet  a  place  as  Medford.  The  doctor 
risked  nothing.  He  was  without  a  family,  the  only  other  occupants 
of  the  house  being  the  housekeeper  and  cook.  On  more  than  one 
occasion,  when  an  interesting  case  needed  constant  watching,  Pitts 
had  used  his  house  as  a  sanatorium.  Quiet  as  the  little  village  itself 
was,  the  house  was  removed  some  little  distance  from  its  outskirts. 
The  air  was  fine  and  pure.  The  stillness,  the  calm,  the  unbroken  re 
pose,  was  almost  Sabbath-like.  In  the  early  watches  of  the  night, 
just  at  the  turn  of  the  dawn,  Lloyd  heard  the  faint  rumble  of  a 
passing  train  at  the  station  nearly  five  miles  away.  For  hours  that 
and  the  prolonged  stridulating  of  the  crickets  were  the  only  sounds. 
Then  at  last,  while  it  was  yet  dark,  a  faint  chittering  of  waking 
birds  began  from  under  the  eaves  and  from  the  apple-trees  in  the 
yard  about  the  house.  Lloyd  went  to  the  window,  and,  drawing 
aside  the  curtains,  stood  there  for  a  moment  looking  out.  She  could 
see  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  town,  and,  in  the  distance,  the 
edge  of  the  town  itself,  a  few  well-kept  country  residences  of  subur 
ban  dwellers  of  the  city,  and,  further  on,  a  large,  rectangular,  brick 
building  with  cupola  and  flagstaff,  perhaps  the  public  school  or  the 
bank  or  the  Odd  Fellows'  Hall.  Nearer  by  were  fields  and  cor 
ners  of  pasture  land,  with  here  and  there  the  formless  shapes  of 
drowsing  cows.  One  of  these,  as  Lloyd  watched,  changed  position, 
and  she  could  almost  hear  the  long,  deep  breath  that  accompanied 
the  motion.  Far  off,  miles  upon  miles,  so  it  seemed,  a  rooster  was 
crowing  at  exact  intervals.  All  at  once,  and  close  at  hand,  another 
answered — a  gay,  brisk  carillon  that  woke  the  echoes  in  an  instant. 
For  the  first  time  Lloyd  noticed  a  pale,  dim  belt  of  light  low  in  the 
east. 

Toward  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  doctor  came  to  relieve 
her,  and  while  he  was  examining  the  charts  and  she  was  making 
her  report  for  the  night  the  housekeeper  announced  breakfast. 

"Go  down  to  your  breakfast,  Miss  Searight,"  said  the  doctor. 
"I'll  stay  here  the  while.  The  housekeeper  will  show  you  to  your 
room." 

But  before  breakfasting  Lloyd  went  to  the  room  the  housekeeper 
had  set  apart  for  her— a  different  one  than  had  been  occupied  by 
either  of  the  previous  nurses — changed  her  dress,  and  bathed  her 
face  and  hands  in  a  disinfecting  solution.  When  she  came  out  of 
her  room  the  doctor  met  her  in  the  hall ;  his  hat  and  stick  were  in 
his  hand.  "He  has  gone  to  sleep,"  he  informed  her,  "and  is  resting 

P— III— NORRIS 


A  Man's  Woman 

quietly.  I  am  going  to  get  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air  along  the  road. 
The  housekeeper  is  with  him.  If  he  wakes  she'll  call  him.  I  will  not 
be  gone  fifteen  minutes.  I've  not  been  out  of  the  house  for  five 
days,  and  there's  no  danger." 

Breakfast  had  been  laid  in  what  the  doctor  spoke  of  as  the  glass- 
room.  This  was  an  inclosed  veranda,  one  side  being  of  glass  and 
opening  by  French  windows  directly  upon  a  little  lawn  that  sloped 
away  under  the  apple-trees  to  the  road.  It  was  a  charming  apart 
ment,  an  idea  of  a  sister  of  Dr.  Pitts,  who  at  one  time  had  spent 
two  years  at  Medford.  Lloyd  breakfasted  here  alone,  and  it  was 
here  that  Bennett  found  her. 

The  one  public  carriage  of  Medford,  a  sort  of  four-seated  carry 
all,  that  met  all  the  trains  at  the  depot,  had  driven  to  the  gate  at 
the  foot  of  the  yard,  and  had  pulled  up,  the  horses  reeking  and 
blowing.  Even  before  it  had  stopped,  a  tall,  square-shouldered  man 
had  alighted,  but  it  was  not  until  he  was  half-way  up  the  gravel 
walk  that  Lloyd  had  recognized  him.  Bennett  caught  sight  of  her 
at  the  same  moment,  and  strode  swiftly  across  the  lawn  and  came 
into  the  breakfast-room  by  one  of  the  open  French  windows.  At 
once  the  room  seemed  to  shrink  in  size;  his  first  step  upon  the  floor 
— a  step  that  was  almost  a  stamp,  so  eager  it  was,  so  masterful  and 
resolute — set  the  panes  of  glass  jarring  in  their  frames.  Never 
had  Bennett  seemed  more  out  of  place  than  in  this  almost  dainty 
breakfast-room,  with  its  small,  feminine  appurtenances,  its  fragile 
glassware,  its  pots  of  flowers  and  growing  plants.  The  incon 
gruous  surroundings  emphasized  his  every  roughness,  his  every 
angularity.  Against  its  background  of  delicate,  mild  tints  his  figure 
loomed  suddenly  colossal ;  the  great  span  of  his  chest  and  shoulders 
seemed  never  so  huge.  His  face;  the  great,  brutal  jaw,  with  its 
aggressive,  bullying,  forward  thrust;  the  close-gripped  lips,  the 
contracted  forehead,  the  small  eyes,  marred  with  the  sharply  defined 
cast,  appeared  never  so  harsh,  never  so  massive,  never  so  significant 
of  the  resistless,  crude  force  of  the  man,  his  energy,  his  overpowering 
determination.  As  he  towered  there  before  her,  one  hand  gripped 
upon  a  chair-back,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  hand  had  but  to  close 
to  crush  the  little  varnished  woodwork  to  a  splinter,  and  when  he 
spoke  Lloyd  could  imagine  that  the  fine,  frail  china  of  the  table 
vibrated  to  the  deep-pitched  bass  of  his  voice. 

Lloyd  had  only  to  look  at  him  once  to  know  that  Bennett  was 
at  the  moment  aroused  and  agitated  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 
His  face  was  congested  and  flaming.  Under  his  frown  his  eyes 


A  Man's  Woman  363 

seemed  flashing  veritable  sparks;  his  teeth  were  set;  in  his  temple 
a  vein  stood  prominent  and  throbbing.  But  Lloyd  was  not  sur 
prised.  Bennett  had,  no  doubt,  heard  of  Ferriss's  desperate  illness. 
Small  wonder  he  was  excited  when  the  life  of  his  dearest  friend  was 
threatened.  Lloyd  could  ignore  her  own  quarrel  with  Bennett  at 
such  a  moment. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  began,  "that  you  could  not  have  known 
sooner.  But  you  remember  you  left  no  address.  There  was — " 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  broke  in  abruptly.  "What  is 
the  use — why" — he  paused  for  a  moment  to  steady  his  voice — "you 
can't  stay  here,"  he  went  on.  "Don't  you  know  the  risk  you  are 
running?  You  can't  stay  here  another  moment." 

"That,"  answered  Lloyd,  smiling,  "is  a  matter  that  is  interest 
ing  chiefly  to  me.  I  suppose  you  know  that,  Mr.  Bennett." 

"I  know  that  you  are  risking  your  life  and — " 

"And  that,  too,  is  my  affair." 

"I  have  made  it  mine,"  he  responded  quickly.  "Oh,"  he  ex 
claimed  sharply,  striking  the  back  of  the  chair  with  his  open  palm, 
"why  must  we  always  be  at  cross-purposes  with  each  other?  I'm 
not  good  at  talking.  What  is  the  use  of  tangling  ourselves  with 
phrases?  I  love  you,  and  I've  come  out  here  to  ask  you,  to  beg 
you,  you  understand,  to  leave  this  house,  where  you  are  foolishly 
risking  your  life.  You  must  do  it,"  he  went  on  rapidly.  "I  love 
you  too  well.  Your  life  is  too  much  to  me  to  allow  you  to  hazard 
it  senselessly,  foolishly.  There  are  other  women,  other  nurses,  who 
can  take  your  place.  But  you  are  not  going  to  stay  here." 

Lloyd  felt  her  indignation  rising. 

"This  is  my  profession,"  she  answered,  trying  to  keep  back  her 
anger.  "I  am  here  because  it  is  my  duty  to  be  here."  Then  sud 
denly,  as  his  extraordinary  effrontery  dawned  upon  her,  she  ex 
claimed,  rising  to  her  feet:  "Do  I  need  to  explain  to  you  what  I  do? 
I  am  here  because  I  choose  to  be  here.  That  is  enough.  I  don't 
care  to  go  any  further  with  such  a  discussion  as  this." 

"You  will  not  leave  here,  then?" 

"No." 

Bennett  hesitated  an  instant,  searching  for  his  words,  then: 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  ask  favors.  I've  had  little  experience  in 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  must  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me,  and  you 
must  understand  to  what  lengths  I  am  driven  then,  when  I  entreat 
you,  when  I  beg  of  you,  as  humbly  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  do 
so,  to  leave  this  house,  now — at  once.  There  is  a  train  to  the  city 


A  Man's  Woman 

within  the  hour;  some  one  else  can  take  your  place  before  noon. 
We  can  telegraph ;  will  you  go  ?" 

"You  are  absurd." 

"Lloyd,  can't  you  see ;  don't  you  understand  ?  It's  as  though  I 
saw  you  rushing  toward  a  precipice  with  your  eyes  shut." 

"My  place  is  here.     I  shall  not  leave." 

But  Bennett's  next  move  surprised  her.  His  eagerness,  his  agi 
tation  left  him  upon  the  instant.  He  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said  quietly.  "The  next  train  will  not  go 
for  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  There  is  more  time  than  I  supposed." 
Then,  with  as  much  gentleness  as  he  could  command,  he  added: 
"Lloyd,  you  are  going  to  take  that  train !" 

"Now,  you  are  becoming  a  little  more  than  absurd,"  she  answered. 
"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Bennett,  whether  or  not  you  intend  to  be  offen 
sive,  but  I  think  you  are  succeeding  rather  well.  You  came  to  this 
house  uninvited ;  you  invade  a  gentleman's  private  residence,  and 
you  attempt  to  meddle  and  to  interfere  with  me  in  the  practice  of 
my  profession.  If  you  think  you  can  impress  me  with  heroics  and 
declamation,  please  correct  yourself  at  once.  You  have  only  suc 
ceeded  in  making  yourself  a  little  vulgar." 

"That  may  be  true  or  not,"  he  answered  with  an  indifferent 
movement  of  his  shoulders.  "It  is  all  one  to  me.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that  you  shall  leave  this  house  this  morning,  and  believe 
me,  Miss  Searight,  I  shall  carry  my  point." 

For  the  moment  Lloyd  caught  her  breath.  For  the  moment 
she  saw  clearly  with  just  what  sort  of  man  she  had  to  deal.  There 
was  a  conviction  in  his  manner — now  that  he  had  quieted  himself 
— that  suddenly  appeared  unanswerable.  It  was  like  the  slow,  still 
moving  of  a  piston. 

But  the  next  moment  her  own  character  reasserted  itself.  She 
remembered  what  she  was  herself.  If  he  was  determined,  she  was 
obstinate;  if  he  was  resolved,  she  was  stubborn;  if  he  was  power 
ful,  she  was  unyielding.  Never  had  she  conceded  her  point  before ; 
never  had  she  allowed  herself  to  be  thwarted  in  the  pursuance  of 
a  course  she  believed  to  be  right.  Was  she,  of  all  women,  to  yield 
now?  The  consciousness  of  her  own  power  of  resistance  came 
suddenly  to  her  aid.  Bennett  was  strong,  but  was  she  not  strong 
herself?  Where  under  the  blue  sky  was  the  power  that  could  break 
down  her  will?  When  death  itself  could  not  prevail  against  her, 
what  in  life  could  shake  her  resolution? 

Suddenly  the  tremendous  import  of  the  moment,  the  magnitude 


A   Man's  Woman  365 

of  the  situation,  flashed  upon  Lloyd.  Both  of  them  had  staked 
everything  upon  this  issue.  Two  characters  of  extraordinary  power 
clashed  violently  together.  There  was  to  be  no  compromise, 
no,  half-measures.  Either  she  or  Bennett  must  in  the  end  be 
beaten.  One  of  them  was  to  be  broken  and  humbled  beyond  all 
retrieving.  There  in  that  commonplace  little  room,  with  its  trivial 
accessories,  its  inadequate  background,  a  battle  royal  swiftly  pre 
pared  itself.  With  the  abruptness  of  an  explosion  the  crisis  devel 
oped. 

"Do  I  need  to  tell  you,"  remarked  Bennett,  "that  your  life  is 
rather  more  to  me  than  any  other  consideration  in  the  world?  Do 
you  suppose  when  the  lives  of  every  member  of  my  command  de 
pended  upon  me  I  was  any  less  resolved  to  succeed  than  I  am  now? 
I  succeeded  then,  and  I  shall  succeed  now,  now  when  there  is  much 
more  at  stake.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  failure,  and  I  shall  not  fail 
now.  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  stop  at  nothing." 

It  was  beyond  Lloyd  to  retain  her  calmness  under  such  aggres 
sion.  It  seemed  as  though  her  self-respect  demanded  that  she 
should  lose  her  temper. 

"And  you  think  you  can  drive  me  as  you  drove  your  deck 
hands?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  have  you  to  do  with  me?  Am  I 
your  subordinate  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  bully  me  ?  We  are  not  in 
Kolyuchin  Bay,  Mr.  Bennett." 

"You're  the  woman  I  love,"  he  answered  with  an  abrupt  return 
of  vehemence,  "and,  by  God !  I  shall  stop  at  nothing  to  save  your 
life." 

"And  my  love  for  you,  that  you  pretend  is  so  much  to  you,  I 
suppose  that  this  is  the  means  you  take  to  awaken  it.  Admitting, 
for  the  moment,  that  you  could  induce  me  to  shirk  my  duty,  how 
should  I  love  you  for  it?  Ask  yourself  that." 

But  Bennett  had  but  one  answer  to  all  her  words.  He  struck  his 
fist  into  the  palm  of  his  hand  as  he  answered : 

"Your  life  is  more  to  me  than  any  other  consideration." 

"But  my  life — how  do  you  know  it  is  a  question  of  my  life? 
Come,  if  we  are  to  quarrel,  let  us  quarrel  upon  reasonable  grounds. 
It  does  not  follow  that  I  risk  my  life  by  staying — " 

"Leave  the  house  first;  we  can  talk  of  that  afterward." 

"I  have  allowed  you  to  talk  too  much  already,"  she  exclaimed 
angrily.  "Let  us  come  to  the  bottom  of  things  at  once.  I  will  not 
be  influenced  nor  cajoled  nor  bullied  into  leaving  my  post.  Now, 
do  you  understand?  That  is  my  final  answer.  You  who  were  a 


A  Man's  Woman 

commander,  who  were  a  leader  of  men,  what  would  you  have  done 
if  one  of  your  party  had  left  his  post  at  a  time  of  danger?  I  can 
tell  you  what  you  would  have  done — you  would  have  shot  him, 
after  first  disgracing  him,  and  now  you  would  disgrace  me.  Is  it 
reasonable?  Is  it  consistent?" 

Bennett  snapped  his  fingers. 

"That  for  consistency !" 

"And  you  would  be  willing  to  disgrace  me — to  have  me  disgrace 
myself?" 

"Your  life — "  began  Bennett  again. 

But  suddenly  Lloyd  flashed  out  upon  him  with :  "My  life !  My 
life!  Are  there  not  some  things  better  than  life?  You,  above  all 
men,  should  understand  that  much.  Oh,  be  yourself,  be  the  man  I 
thought  you  were.  You  have  your  code;  let  me  have  mine.  You 
could  not  be  what  you  are,  you  could  not  have  done  what  you  did, 
if  you  had  not  set  so  many  things  above  merely  your  life.  Admit 
that  you  could  not  have  loved  me  unless  you  believed  that  I  could 
do  the  same.  How  could  you  still  love  me  if  you  knew  I  had 
failed  in  my  duty?  How  could  you  still  love  me  if  you  knew  that 
you  had  broken  down  my  will?  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself.  You  loved  me  because  you  knew  me  to  be  strong  and 
brave  and  to  be  above  petty  deceptions  and  shams  and  subterfuges. 
And  now  you  ask  me  to  fail,  to  give  up,  to  shirk,  and  you  tell  me  you 
do  so  because  you  love  me." 

"That  is  all  so  many  words  to  me.  I  can  not  argue  with 
you,  and  there  is  no  time  for  it.  I  did  not  come  here  to — 
converse." 

Never  in  her  life  before  had  Lloyd  been  so  angry  as  at  that 
moment.  The  sombre  crimson  of  her  cheeks  had  suddenly  given 
place  to  an  unwonted  paleness;  even  her  dull-blue  eyes,  that  so 
rarely  sparkled,  were  all  alight.  She  straightened  herself. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  answered  quietly,  "Our  conversation  can 
stop  where  it  is.  You  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Bennett,  if  I  leave  you. 
I  have  my  work  to  do." 

Bennett  was  standing  between  her  and  the  door.  He  did  not 
move.  Very  gravely  he  said: 

"Don't.    Please  don't  bring  it— to  that." 

Lloyd  flashed  a  look  at  him,  her  eyes  wide,  exclaiming: 

"You  don't  mean — you  don't  dare — " 

"I  tell  you  again  that  I  mean  to  carry  my  point." 

"And  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  not  leave  my  patient" 


A  Man's  Woman  367 

Bennett  met  her  glance  for  an  instant,  and,  holding  her  gaze 
with  his,  answered  but  two  words.  Speaking  in  a  low  voice  and 
with  measured  slowness,  he  said: 

"You— shall." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  two  stood  there,  looking  straight  into 
one  another's  eyes,  their  mutual  opposition  at  its  climax.  The  sec 
onds  began  to  pass.  The  conflict  between  the  man's  aggression  and 
the  woman's  resistance  reached  its  turning  point.  Before  another 
word  should  be  spoken,  before  the  minute  should  pass,  one  of  the 
two  must  give  ground. 

And  then  it  was  that  Lloyd  felt  something  break  down  within 
her,  something  to  which  she  could  not  put  a  name.  A  mysterious 
element  of  her  character,  hitherto  rigid  and  intact,  was  beginning 
at  last  to  crumble.  Somewhere  a  breach  had  been  opened;  some 
where  the  barrier  had  been  undermined.  The  fine  steadfastness  that 
was  hers,  and  that  she  had  so  dearly  prized,  her  strength  in  which 
she  had  gloried,  her  independence,  her  splendid  arrogant  self-con 
fidence  and  conscious  power,  seemed  all  at  once  to  weaken  before 
this  iron  resolve  that  shut  its  ears  and  eyes,  this  colossal,  untu 
tored,  savage  intensity  of  purpose. 

And  abruptly  her  eyes  were  opened,  and  the  inherent  weakness 
of  her  sex  became  apparent  to  her.  Was  it  a  mistake,  then  ?  Could 
not  a  woman  be  strong?  Was  her  strength  grafted  upon  elemental 
weakness — not  her  individual  weakness,  but  the  weakness  of  her 
sex,  the  intended  natural  weakness  of  the  woman?  Had  she  built 
her  fancied  impregnable  fortress  upon  sand? 

But  habit  was  too  strong.  For  an  instant,  brief  as  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  an  eye,  a  vision  was  vouchsafed  to  her,  one  of  those 
swift  glimpses  into  unplumbed  depths  that  come  sometimes  to  the 
human  mind  in  the  moments  of  its  exaltation,  but  that  are  gone 
with  such  rapidity  that  they  may  not  be  trusted.  For  an  instant 
Lloyd  saw  deep  down  into  the  black,  mysterious  gulf  of  sex — 
down,  down,  down  where,  immeasurably  below  the  world  of  little 
things,  the  changeless,  dreadful  machinery  of  Life  itself  worked, 
clashing  and  resistless  in  its  grooves.  It  was  a  glimpse  fortunately 
brief,  a  vision  that  does  not  come  too  often,  lest  reason,  brought  to 
the  edge  of  the  abyss,  grow  giddy  at  the  sight  and,  reeling,  topple 
headlong.  But  quick  the  vision  passed,  the  gulf  closed,  and  she  felt 
the  firm  ground  again  beneath  her  feet. 

"I  shall  not,"  she  cried. 

Was  it  the  same  woman  who  had  spoken  but  one  moment  before? 


A  Man's  Woman 

Did  her  voice  ring  with  the  same  undaunted  defiance?  Was  there 
not  a  note  of  despair  in  her  tones,  a  barely  perceptible  quaver,  the 
symbol  of  her  wavering  resolve?  Was  not  the  very  fact  that  she 
must  question  her  strength  proof  positive  that  her  strength  was 
waning  ? 

But  her  courage  was  unshaken,  even  if  her  strength  was  break 
ing.  To  the  last  she  would  strive,  to  the  end  she  would  hold  her 
forehead  high.  Not  till  the  last  hope  had  been  tried  would  she 
acknowledge  her  defeat. 

"But  in  any  case,"  she  said,  "risk  is  better  than  certainty.  If  I 
risk  my  life  by  staying,  it  is  certain  that  he  will  die  if  I  leave  him 
at  this  critical  moment." 

"So  much  the  worse,  then — you  can  not  stay." 

Lloyd  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"It  isn't  possible;  I  don't  believe  you  can  understand.  Do  you 
know  how  sick  he  is?  Do  you  know  that  he  is  lying  at  the  point 
of  death  at  this  very  moment,  and  that  the  longer  I  stay  away  from 
him  the  more  his  life  is  in  peril  ?  Has  he  not  rights  as  well  as  I ; 
has  he  not  a  right  to  live?  It  is  not  only  my  own  humiliation  that 
is  at  stake,  it  is  the  life  of  your  dearest  friend,  the  man  who  stood  by 
you,  and  helped  you,  and  who  suffered  the  same  hardships  and  pri 
vations  as  yourself." 

"What's  that  ?"  demanded  Bennett  with  a  sudden  frown. 

"If  I  leave  Mr.  Ferriss  now,  if  he  is  left  alone  here  for  so  much 
as  half  an  hour,  I  will  not  answer — " 

"Ferriss !  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  What  is  your  patient's 
name  ?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"Ferriss !     Dick  Ferriss !     Don't  tell  me  it's  Dick  Ferriss." 

"I  thought  all  the  time  you  knew — that  you  had  heard.  Yes,  it  is 
Mr.  Ferriss." 

"Is  he  very  sick?  What  is  he  doing  out  here?  No,  I  had  not 
heard ;  nobody  told  me.  Pitts  was  to  write— to — to  wire.  Will  he 
pull  through?  What's  the  matter  with  him?  Is  it  he  who  had 
typhoid?" 

"He  is  very  dangerously  ill.  Dr.  Pitts  brought  him  here.  This 
is  his  house.  We  do  not  know  if  he  will  get  well.  It  is  only 
by  watching  him  every  instant  that  we  can  hope  for  anything.  At 
this  moment  there  is  no  one  with  him  but  a  servant.  Now,  Mr. 
Bennett,  am  I  to  go  to  my  patient  ?" 

"But — but — we  can  get  some  one  else." 


A  Man's  Woman  369 

"Not  before  three  hours,  and  it's  only  the  truth  when  I  tell  you 
he  may  die  at  any  minute.  Am  I  to  go?" 

In  a  second  of  time  the  hideous  situation  leaped  up  before  Ben 
nett's  eyes.  Right  or  wrong,  the  conviction  that  Lloyd  was  terribly 
imperiling  her  life  by  remaining  at  her  patient's  bedside  had  sunk 
into  his  mind  and  was  not  be  eradicated.  It  was  a  terror  that  had 
gripped  him  close  and  that  could  not  be  reasoned  away.  But  Fer- 
riss?  What  of  him?  Now  it  had  brusquely  transpired  that  his  life, 
too,  hung  in  the  balance.  How  to  decide?  How  to  meet  this  abon- 
inable  complication  wherein  he  must  sacrifice  the  woman  he  so 
dearly  loved  or  the  man  who  was  the  Damon  to  his  Pythias,  the 
Jonathan  to  his  David? 

"Am  I  to  go  ?"  repeated  Lloyd  for  the  third  time. 

Bennett  closed  his  eyes,  clasping  his  head  with  both  hands. 

"Great  God,  wait — wait — I  can't  think — I — I,  oh,  this  is  ter 
rible  !" 

Lloyd  drove  home  her  advantage  mercilessly. 

"Wait?    I  tell  you  we  can't  wait." 

Then  Bennett  realized  with  a  great  spasm  of  horror  that  for 
him  there  was  no  going  back.  All  his  life,  accustomed  to  quick 
decisions  in  moments  of  supreme  peril,  he  took  his  decision  now, 
facing,  with  such  courage  as  he  could  muster,  its  unspeakable  con 
sequences,  consequences  that  he  knew  must  harry  and  hound  him 
all  the  rest  of  his  life.  Whichever  way  he  decided,  he  opened  his 
heart  to  the  beak  and  talons  of  a  pitiless  remorse.  He  could  no 
longer  see,  in  the  dreadful  confusion  of  his  mind,  the  right  of  things 
or  the  wrong  of  things,  could  not  accurately  weigh  chances  or  pos 
sibilities.  For  him  only  two  alternatives  presented  themselves,  the 
death  of  Ferriss  or  the  death  of  Lloyd.  He  could  see  no  compro 
mise,  could  imagine  no  escape.  It  was  as  though  a  headsman  with 
ready  axe  stood  at  his  elbow,  awaiting  his  commands.  And,  be 
sides  all  this,  he  had  long  since  passed  the  limit — though  perhaps  he 
did  not  know  it  himself— where  he  could  see  anything  but  the  point 
he  had  determined  to  gain,  the  goal  he  had  determined  to  reach.  His 
mind  was  made  up.  His  furious  energy,  his  resolve  to  conquer  at 
all  costs,  had  become  at  last  a  sort  of  directed  frenzy.  The  engine 
he  had  set  in  motion  was  now  beyond  his  control.  He  could  not 
now — whether  he  would  or  no — reverse  its  action,  swerve  it  from  its 
iron  path,  call  k  back  from  the  monstrous  catastrophe  toward  which 
it  was  speeding  him. 

"God  help  us  all!"  he  muttered. 


A  Man's  Woman 

"Well,"  said  Lloyd  expectantly. 

Bennett  drew  a  deep  breath,  his  hands  falling  helplessly  at  his 
sides.  In  a  way  he  appeared  suddenly  bowed;  the  great  frame  of 
bone  and  sinew  seemed  in  some  strange,  indefinable  manner  to 
shrink,  to  stagger  under  the  sudden  assumption  of  an  intolerable 
burden — a  burden  that  was  never  to  be  lifted. 

Even  then,  however,  Bennett  still  believed  in  the  wisdom  of 
his  course,  still  believed  himself  to  be  right.  But,  right  or 
wrong,  he  now  must  go  forward.  Was  it  fate,  was  it  doom,  was 
it  destiny? 

Bennett's  entire  life  had  been  spent  in  the  working  out  of  great 
ideas  in  the  face  of  great  obstacles;  continually  he  had  been  called 
upon  to  overcome  enormous  difficulties  with  enormous  strength. 
For  long  periods  of  time  he  had  been  isolated  from  civilization,  had 
been  face  to  face  with  the  simple,  crude  forces  of  an  elemental 
world — forces  that  were  to  be  combated  and  overthrown  by  means 
no  less  simple  and  crude  than  themselves.  He  had  lost  the  faculty, 
possessed,  no  doubt,  by  smaller  minds,  of  dealing  with  complicated 
situations.  To  resort  to  expedients,  to  make  concessions,  was  all 
beyond  him.  For  him  a  thing  was  absolutely  right  or  absolutely 
wrong,  and  between  the  two  there  was  no  gradation.  For  so  long  a 
time  had  he  looked  at  the  larger,  broader  situations  of  life  that  his 
mental  vision  had  become  all  deformed  and  confused.  He  saw 
things  invariably  magnified  beyond  all  proportion,  or  else  dwarfed 
to  a  littleness  that  was  beneath  consideration.  Normal  vision  was 
denied  him.  It  was  as  though  he  studied  the  world  through  one  or 
the  other  end  of  a  telescope,  and  when,  as  at  present,  his  emotions 
were  aroused,  matters  were  only  made  the  worse.  The  idea  that 
Ferriss  might  recover,  though  Lloyd  should  leave  him  at  this  mo 
ment,  hardly  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  He  was  convinced  that 
if  Lloyd  went  away  Ferriss  would  die;  Lloyd  had  said  as  much 
herself.  The  hope  that  Lloyd  might,  after  all,  nurse  him  through 
his  sickness  without  danger  to  herself  was  so  remote  that  he  did  not 
consider  it  for  one  instant.  If  Lloyd  remained  she,  like  the  other 
nurse,  would  contract  the  disease  and  die. 

These  were  the  half-way  measures  Bennett  did  not  understand, 
the  expedients  he  could  no  longer  see.  It  was  either  Lloyd  or  Fer 
riss.  He  must  choose  between  them. 

Bennett  went  to  the  door  of  the  room,  closed  it  and  leaned 
against  it. 

"No,"  he  said. 


A  Man's  Woman  371 

Lloyd  was  stricken  speechless.  For  the  instant  she  shrank  before 
him  as  if  from  a  murderer.  Bennett  now  knew  precisely  the  ter 
rible  danger  in  which  he  left  the  man  who  was  his  dearest  friend. 
Would  he  actually  consent  to  his  death?  It  was  almost  beyond 
belief,  and  for  the  moment  Lloyd  herself  quailed  before  him.  Her 
first  thoughts  were  not  of  herself,  but  of  Ferriss.  If  he  was  Ben 
nett's  friend  he  was  her  friend,  too.  At  that  very  moment  he  might 
be  dying  for  want  of  her  care.  She  was  fast  becoming  desperate. 
For  the  moment  she  could  put  all  thought  of  herself  and  of  her  own 
dignity  in  the  background. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  she  cried.  "Is  it  my  humiliation  you 
ask  ?  Well,  then,  you  have  it.  It  is  as  hard  for  me  to  ask  favors  as 
it  is  for  you.  I  am  as  proud  as  you,  but  I  entreat  you,  you  hear  me, 
as  humbly  as  I  can,  to  let  me  go.  What  do  you  want  more  than 
that?  Oh,  can't  you  understand?  While  we  talk  here,  while  you 
keep  me  here,  he  may  be  dying.  Is  it  a  time  for  arguments,  is  it  a 
time  for  misunderstandings,  is  it  a  time  to  think  of  ourselves,  of 
our  own  lives,  our  own  little  affairs?"  She  clasped  her  hands. 
"WTill  you  please — can  I,  can  I  say  more  than  that;  will  you  please 
let  me  go?" 

"No." 

With  a  great  effort  Lloyd  tried  to  regain  her  self-control.  She 
paused  a  moment,  then : 

"Listen !"  she  said.  "You  say  that  you  love  me ;  that  I  am  more 
to  you  than  even  Mr.  Ferriss,  your  truest  friend.  I  do  not  wish 
to  think  of  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this,  but  supposing  that  you 
should  make  me — that  I  should  consent  to  leave  my  patient.  Think 
of  me  then,  afterward.  Can  I  go  back  there  to  the  house,  the  house 
that  I  built?  Can  I  face  the  women  of  my  profession?  What  would 
they  think  of  me?  What  would  my  friends  think  of  me — I  who 
have  held  my  head  so  high?  You  will  ruin  my  life.  I  should  have 
to  give  up  my  profession.  Oh,  can't  you  see  in  what  position  you 
would  place  me?"  Suddenly  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  "No!" 
she  cried  vehemently.  "No,  no,  no,  I  will  not,  I  will  not  be  dis 
graced!" 

"I  have  no  wish  to  disgrace  you,"  answered  Bennett.  "It  is 
strange  for  you  to  say  that  to  me,  if  I  love  you  so  well  that  I  can 
give  up  Ferriss  for — " 

"Then,  if  you  love  me  so  much  as  that,  there  must  be  one  thing 
that  you  would  set  even  above  my  life.  Dq  you  wish  to  make  me 
hate  you?" 


372  A  Man's  Woman 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more  to  me  than  your  life ;  you 
know  that.  How  can  you  think  it  of  me  ?" 

"Because  you  don't  understand — because  you  don't  know  that — 
oh,  that  I  love  you !  I— no— I  didn't  mean— I  didn't  mean—" 

What  had  she  said?  What  had  happened?  How  was  it  that 
the  words  that  yesterday  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to  so  much 
as  whisper  to  herself  had  now  rushed  to  her  lips  almost  of  their 
own  accord?  After  all  those  years  of  repression,  suddenly  the 
sweet,  dim  thought  she  had  hidden  in  her  secretest  heart's  heart  had 
leaped  to  light  and  to  articulate  words.  Unasked,  unbidden,  she 
had  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  She,  she  had  done  this  thing  when, 
but  a  few  moments  before,  her  anger  against  him  had  shaken  her 
to  her  very  finger-tips.  The  hot,  intolerable  shame  of  it  smote  like 
fire  into  her  face.  Her  world  was  cracking  about  her  ears;  every 
thing  she  had  prized  the  dearest  was  being  torn  from  her,  every 
thing  she  had  fancied  the  strongest  was  being  overthrown.  Had 
she,  she  who  had  held  herself  so  proud  and  high,  come  at  last 
to  this? 

Swiftly  she  turned  from  him  and  clasped  her  hands  before  her 
eyes  and  sank  down  into  the  chair  she  had  quitted,  bowing  her  head 
upon  her  arms,  hiding  her  face,  shutting  herself  from  the  light  of 
day,  quivering  and  thrilling  with  an  agony  of  shame  and  with  an 
utter,  an  abject  self-contempt  that  was  beyond  all  power  of  expres 
sion.  But  the  instant  she  felt  Bennett's  touch  upon  her  shoulder 
she  sprang  up  as  if  a  knife  had  pierced  her,  and  shrank  from  him, 
turning  her  head  away,  her  hand,  palm  outward,  before  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  please !"  she  begged  piteously,  almost  inarticulately  in  the 
stress  of  her  emotion,  "don't — if  you  are  a  man — don't  take  advan 
tage — please,  please  don't  touch  me.  Let  me  go  away." 

She  was  talking  to  deaf  ears.  In  two  steps  Bennett  had  reached 
her  side  and  had  taken  her  in  his  arms.  Lloyd  could  not  resist. 
Her  vigor  of  body  as  well  as  of  mind  was  crushed  and  broken  and 
beaten  down;  and  why  was  it  that  in  spite  of  her  shame,  that  in 
spite  of  her  unutterable  self-reproach,  the  very  touch  of  her  cheek 
upon  his  shoulder  was  a  comfort?  Why  was  it  that  to  feel  herself 
carried  away  in  the  rush  of  this  harsh,  impetuous,  masculine  power 
was  a  happiness  ?  Why  was  it  that  to  know  that  her  prided  fortitude 
and  hitherto  unshaken  power  were  being  overwhelmed  and  broken 
with  a  brutal,  ruthless  strength  was  an  exultation  and  a  glory? 
Why  was  it  that  she  who  but  a  moment  before  quailed  from  his 
lightest  touch  now  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  clung  to  him 


A  Man's  Woman  373 

with  a  sense  of  protection  and  of  refuge,  the  need  of  which  she  had 
always  and  until  that  very  moment  disdained? 

"Why  should  you  be  sorry  because  you  spoke?"  said  Bennett. 
"I  knew  that  you  loved  me  and  you  knew  that  I  loved  you.  What 
does  it  matter  if  you  said  it  or  did  not  say  it  ?  We  know  each  other, 
you  and  I.  We  understand.  You  knew  that  I  loved  you.  You 
think  that  I  have  been  strong  and  determined,  and  have  done  the 
things  I  set  out  to  do;  what  I  am  is  what  you  made  me.  What  I 
have  done  I  have  done  because  I  thought  you  would  approve.  Do 
you  think  I  would  have  come  back  if  I  had  not  known  that  I  was 
coming  back  to  you?"  Suddenly  an  impatient  exclamation  escaped 
him,  and  his  clasp  about  her  tightened.  "Oh!  words — the  mere 
things  that  one  can  say — seem  so  pitiful,  so  miserably  inadequate. 
Don't  you  know,  can't  you  feel  what  you  are  to  me?  Tell  me,  do  you 
think  I  love  you  ?" 

But  she  could  not  bear  to  meet  his  glance  just  yet.  Her  eyes 
were  closed,  and  she  could  only  nod  her  head. 

But  Bennett  took  her  head  in  both  his  hands  and  turned  her 
face  to  his.  Even  yet  she  kept  her  eyes  closed. 

"Lloyd,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  almost  a  command;  "Lloyd, 
look  at  me.  Do  you  love  me?" 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  Then  her  sweet  dull-blue  eyes  opened, 
and  through  the  tears  that  brimmed  them  and  wet  her  lashes  she 
looked  at  him  and  met  his  glance  fearlessly  and  almost  proudly,  and 
her  voice  trembled  and  vibrated  with  an  infinite  tenderness  as  she 
answered : 

"I  do  love  you,  Ward;  love  you  with  all  my  heart." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  said,  drawing  a  little  from  him  and 
resting  a  hand  upon  either  shoulder : 

"But,  listen,  dear;  we  must  not  think  of  ourselves  now.  We 
must  think  of  him,  so  sick  and  weak  and  helpless.  This  is  a  terrible 
moment  in  our  lives.  I  don't  know  why  it  has  come  to  us.  I  don't 
know  why  it  should  all  have  happened  as  it  has  this  morning.  Just 
a  few  moments  ago  I  was  angry  as  I  never  was  in  my  life  before — 
and  at  you — and  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  never  was  so  happy;  I 
don't  know  myself  any  more.  Everything  is  confused ;  all  we  can  do 
is  to  hold  to  what  we  know  is  right  and  trust  that  everything  will 
be  well  in  the  end.  It  is  a  crisis,  isn't  it?  And  all  our  lives  and  all 
our  happiness  depend  upon  how  we  meet  it.  I  am  all  different  now. 
I  am  not  the  woman  I  was  a  half-hour  ago.  You  must  be  brave 
for  me  now,  and  you  must  be  strong  for  me  and  help  me  to  do  my 


274  A  Man's  Woman 

duty.  We  must  live  up  to  the  best  that  is  in  us  and  do  what  we 
think  is  right,  no  matter  what  risks  we  run,  no  matter  what  the 
consequences  are.  I  would  not  have  asked  you  to  help  me  before — 
before  what  has  happened — but  now  I  need  your  help.  You  have 
said  I  helped  you  to  be  brave;  help  me  to  be  brave  now,  and  to 
do  what  I  know  is  right." 

But  Bennett  was  still  blind.  If  she  had  been  dear  to  him  before, 
how  doubly  so  had  she  become  since  she  had  confessed  her  love  for 
him!  Ferriss  was  forgotten,  ignored.  He  could  not  let  her  go,  he 
could  not  let  her  run  the  slightest  risk.  Was  he  to  take  any  chance 
of  losing  her  now  ?  He  shook  his  head. 

"Ward!"  she  exclaimed  with  deep  and  serious  earnestness,  "if 
you  do  not  wish  me  to  risk  my  life  by  going  to  my  post,  be  careful, 
oh,  be  very  careful,  that  you  do  not  risk  something  that  is  more 
to  us  both  than  life  itself,  by  keeping  me  from  it.  Do  you  think  I 
could  love  you  so  deeply  and  so  truly  as  I  do  if  I  had  not  kept  my 
standards  high ;  if  I  had  not  believed  in  the  things  that  were  better 
than  life,  and  stronger  than  death,  and  dearer  to  me  than  even  love 
itself?  There  are  some  things  I  can  not  do:  I  can  not  be  false,  I 
can  not  be  cowardly,  I  can  not  shirk  my  duty.  Now  I  am  helpless 
in  your  hands.  You  have  conquered,  and  you  can  do  with  me  as 
you  choose.  But  if  you  make  me  do  what  is  false,  and!  what  is 
cowardly,  and  what  is  dishonorable;  if  you  stand  between  me  and 
what  I  know  is  my  duty,  how  can  I  love  you,  how  can  I  love  you  ?" 

Persistently,  perversely,  Bennett  stopped  his  ears  to  every  con 
sideration,  to  every  argument.  She  wished  to  hazard  her  life.  That 
was  all  he  understood. 

"No,  Lloyd,"  he  answered,  "you  must  not  do  it." 

" — and  I  want  to  love  you,"  she  went  on,  as  though  she  had  not 
heard.  "I  want  you  to  be  everything  to  me.  I  have  trusted  you 
so  long — had  faith  in  you  so  long,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  you  as 
the  man  who  failed  me  when  I  most  needed  his  help,  who  made  me 
do  the  thing  that  was  contemptible  and  unworthy.  Believe  me,"  she 
went  on  with  sudden  energy,  "you  will  kill  my  love  for  you  if  you 
persist." 

But  before  Bennett  could  answer  there  was  a  cry. 

"It  is  the  servant,"  exclaimed  Lloyd  quickly.  "She  has  been 
watching — there  in  the  room  with  him." 

"Nurse— Miss  Searight,"  came  the  cry,  "quick — there  is  some 
thing  wrong — I  don't  know — oh,  hurry !" 

"Do  you  hear?"  cried  Lloyd.    "It  is  the  crisis— he  may  be  dying. 


A  Man's  Woman  375 

Oh,  Ward,  it  is  the  man  you  love !  We  can  save  him."  She  stamped 
her  foot  in  the  frenzy  of  her  emotion,  her  hands  twisting  together. 
"I  will  go.  I  forbid  you  to  keep — to  hinder — to — to,  oh,  what  is  to 
become  of  us  ?  If  you  love  me,  if  you  love  him — Ward,  will  you  let 
me  go?" 

Bennett  put  his  hands  over  his  ears,  his  eyes  closed.  In  the 
horror  of  that  moment,  when  he  realized  that  no  matter  how  he 
might  desire  it  he  could  not  waver  in  his  resolution,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  reason  must  give  way.  But  he  set  his  back  to  the  door,  his 
hand  gripped  tight  upon  the  knob,  and  through  his  set  teeth  his 
answer  came  as  before  : 
'  "No." 

"Nurse — Miss  Searight,  where  are  you?     Hurry,  oh,  hurry!" 

"Will  you  let  me  go?" 

"No." 

Lloyd  caught  at  his  hand,  shut  so  desperately  upon  the  knob, 
striving  to  loosen  his  clasp.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing; 
she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  imploring,  commanding,  now 
submissive,  now  imperious,  her  voice  now  vibrating  with  anger, 
now  trembling  with  passionate  entreaty. 

"You  are  not  only  killing  him,  you  are  killing  my  love  for  you — 
will  you  let  me  go? — the  love  that  is  so  dear  to  me?  Let  me  love 
you,  Ward ;  listen  to  me ;  don't  make  me  hate  you ;  let  me  love  you, 
dear—" 

"Hurry,  oh,  hurry!" 

"Let  me  love  you ;  let  him  live.  I  want  to  love  you.  It's  the 
best  happiness  in  my  life.  Let  me  be  happy.  Can't  you  see  what 
this  moment  is  to  mean  for  us?  It  is  our  happiness  or  wretched 
ness  forever.  Will  you  let  me  go?" 

"No." 

"For  the  last  time,  Ward,  listen !  It  is  my  love  for  you  and  his 
life.  Don't  crush  us  both — yes,  and  yourself.  You  who  can,  who 
are  so  powerful,  don't  trample  all  our  happiness  underfoot." 

"Hurry,  hurry;  oh,  will  nobody  come  to  help?" 

"Will  you  let  me  go?" 

"No." 

Her  strength  seemed  all  at  once  to  leave  her.  All  the  fabric  of 
her  character,  so  mercilessly  assaulted,  appeared  in  that  moment  to 
reel,  topple,  and  go  crashing  to  its  wreck.  She  was  shattered, 
broken,  humbled,  and  beaten  down  to  the  dust.  Her  pride  was  gone, 
her  faith  in  herself  was  gone,  her  fine,  strong  energy  was  gone.  The 


A  Man's  Woman 

pity  of  it,  the  grief  of  it;  all  that  she  had  held  dearest;  her  fine  and 
confident  steadfastness;  the  great  love  that  had  brought  such  hap 
piness  into  her  life — that  had  been  her  inspiration — all  torn  from  her 
and  tossed  aside  like  chaff.  And  her  patient — Ferriss,  the  man  who 
loved  her,  who  had  undergone  such  suffering,  such  hardship,  who 
trusted  her  and  whom  it  was  her  duty  to  nurse  back  to  life  and 
health — if  he  should  perish  for  want  of  her  care,  then  what  infinite 
sorrow,  then  what  endless  remorse,  then  what  long  agony  of  unavail 
ing  regret!  Her  world,  her  universe  grew  dark  to  her;  she  was 
driven  from  her  firm  stand.  She  was  lost,  she  was  whirled  away— 
away  with  the  storm,  landmarks  obliterated,  lights  gone ;  away  with 
the  storm ;  out  into  the  darkness,  out  into  the  void,  out  into  the 
waste  places  and  wilderness  and  trackless  desolation. 

"Hurry,  oh,  hurry!" 

It  was  too  late.  She  had  failed ;  the  mistake  had  been  made,  the 
question  had  been  decided.  That  insensate,  bestial  determination, 
iron-hearted,  iron-strong,  had  beaten  down  opposition  and  carried 
its  point.  Life  and  love  had  been  crushed  beneath  its  trampling 
without  pity,  without  hesitation.  The  tragedy  of  the  hour  was 
done;  the  tragedy  of  the  long  years  to  come  was  just  beginning. 

Lloyd  sank  down  in  the  chair  before  the  table,  and  the  head  that 
she  had  held  so  high  bowed  down  upon  her  folded  arms.  The 
violence  of  her  grief  shook  her  from  head  to  foot  like  a  dry,  light 
weed.  Her  heart  seemed  literally  to  be  breaking.  She  must  set 
her  teeth  with  all  her  strength  to  keep  from  groaning  aloud,  from 
crying  out  in  her  hopeless  sorrow,  her  impotent  shame  and  despair. 

Once  more  came  the  cry  for  help.  Then  the  house  fell  silent. 
The  minutes  passed.  But  for  Lloyd's  stifled  grief  there  was  no 
sound.  Bennett — leaning  heavily  against  the  door,  his  great  shoul 
ders  stooping  and  bent,  his  face  ashen,  his  eyes  fixed — did  not 
move.  He  did  not  speak  to  Lloyd.  There  was  no  word  of  comfort 
he  could  address  to  her — that  would  have  seemed  the  last  mockery. 
He  had  prevailed,  as  he  knew  he  should,  as  he  knew  he  must,  when 
once  his  resolve  was  taken.  The  force  that,  once  it  was  unleashed, 
was  beyond  him  to  control,  had  accomplished  its  purpose.  His  will 
remained  unbroken;  but  at  what  cost?  However,  that  was  for 
future  consideration.  The  costs?.  Had  he  not  his  whole  life  before 
him  in  which  to  count  them?  The  present  moment  still  called  upon 
him  to  act.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 

The  next  quarter  of  an  hour  was  all  a  confusion  to  him.  Its  in 
cidents  refused  to  define  themselves  upon  his  memory  when  after- 


A  Man's  Woman  377 

ward  he  tried  to  recall  them.  He  could  remember,  however,  that 
when  he  helped  Lloyd  into  the  carryall  that  was  to  take  her  to  the 
depot  in  the  village  she  had  shrunk  from  his  touch  and  had  drawn 
away  from  him  as  if  from  a  criminal — a  murderer.  He  placed  her 
satchel  on  the  front  seat  with  the  driver,  and  got  up  beside  the 
driver  himself.  She  had  drawn  her  veil  over  her  face,  and  during 
the  drive  sat  silent  and  motionless. 

"Can  you  make  it?"  asked  Bennett  of  the  driver,  watch  in  hand. 
The  time  was  of  the  shortest,  but  the  driver  put  the  whip  to  his 
horses,  and,  at  a  run,  they  reached  the  railway  station  a  few  mo 
ments  ahead  of  time.  Bennett  told  the  driver  to  wait,  and  -while 
Lloyd  remained  in  her  place  he  bought  her  ticket  for  the  city. 
Then  he  went  to  the  telegraph  office  and  sent  a  peremptory  despatch 
to  the  house  on  Calumet  Square. 

A  few  moments  later  the  train  had  come  and  gone,  an  abrupt 
eruption  of  roaring  iron  and  shrieking  steam.  Bennett  was  left  on 
the  platform  alone,  watching  it  lessen  to  a  smoky  blur  where  the 
rails  converged  toward  the  horizon.  For  an  instant  he  stood  watch 
ing,  watching  a  resistless,  iron-hearted  force  whirling  her  away, 
out  of  his  reach,  out  of  his  life.  Then  he  shook  himself,  turning 
sharply  about. 

"Back  to  the  doctor's  house  now,"  he  commanded  the  driver; 
"on  the  run,  you  understand." 

But  the  other  protested.  His  horses  were  all  but  exhausted. 
Twice  they  had  covered  that  distance  at  top  speed  and  under  the 
whip.  He  refused  to  return.  Bennett  took  the  young  man  by  the 
arm  and  lifted  him  from  his  seat  to  the  ground.  Then  he  sprang 
to  his  place  and  lashed  the  horses  to  a  gallop. 

When  he  arrived  at  Dr.  Pitts's  house  he  did  not  stop  to  tie  the 
horses,  but  threw  the  reins  over  their  backs  and  entered  the  front 
hall,  out  of  breath  and  panting.  But  the  doctor,  during  Bennett's 
absence,  had  returned,  and  it  was  he  who  met  him  half-way  up  the 
stairs. 

"How  is  he?"  demanded  Bennett.  "I  have  sent  for  another 
nurse;  she  will  be  out  here  on  the  next  train.  I  wired  from  the 
station." 

"The  only  objection  to  that,"  answered  the  doctor,  looking  fixed 
ly  at  him,  "is  that  it  is  not  necessary.  Mr.  Ferriss  has  just  died." 


378  A  Man's  Woman 


VII 

THROUGHOUT  her  ride  from  Medford  to  the  city  it  was  impos 
sible  for  Lloyd,  so  great  was  the  confusion  in  her  mind,  to  think 
connectedly.  She  had  been  so  fiercely  shocked,  so  violently  shat 
tered  and  weakened,  that  for  a  time  she  lacked  the  power  and  even 
the  desire  to  collect  and  to  concentrate  her  scattering  thoughts.  For 
the  time  being  she  felt,  but  only  dimly,  that  a  great  blow  had  fallen, 
that  a  great  calamity  had  overwhelmed  her,  but  so  extraordinary 
was  the  condition  of  her  mind  that  more  than  once  she  found  herself 
calmly  awaiting  the  inevitable  moment  when  the  full  extent  of  the 
catastrophe  would  burst  upon  her.  For  the  moment  she  was  merely 
tired.  She  was  willing  even  to  put  off  this  reaction  for  a  while, 
willing  to  remain  passive  and  dizzied  and  stupefied,  resigning  her 
self  helplessly  and  supinely  to  the  swift  current  of  events. 

Yet  while  that  part  of  her  mind  which  registered  the  greater, 
deeper,  and  more  lasting  impressions  remained  inactive,  the  smaller 
faculty,  that  took  cognizance  of  the  little,  minute-to-minute  matters, 
was  as  busy  and  bright  as  ever.  It  appeared  that  the  blow  had 
been  struck  over  this  latter  faculty,  and  not,  as  one  so  often  sup 
poses,  through  it.  She  seemed  in  that  hour  to  understand  the  rea 
sonableness  of  this  phenomenon,  that  before  had  always  appeared 
so  inexplicable,  and  saw  how  great  sorrow  as  well  as  great  joy 
strikes  only  at  the  greater  machinery  of  the  brain,  overpassing  and 
ignoring  the  little  wheels  and  cogs,  that  work  on  as  briskly  as  ever 
in  storm  or  calm,  being  moved  only  by  temporary  and  trivial  emo 
tions  and  impressions. 

So  it  was  that  for  upward  of  an  hour  while  the  train  carried  her 
swiftly  back  to  the  city,  Lloyd  sat  quietly  in  her  place,  watching 
the  landscape  rushing  past  her  and  cut  into  regular  divisions  by  the 
telegraph  poles  like  the  whirling  pictures  of  a  kinetoscope.  She 
noted,  and  even  with  some  particularity,  the  other  passengers— a 
young  girl  in  a  smart  tailor-made  gown  reading  a  book,  cutting  the 
leaves  raggedly  with  a  hairpin ;  a  well-groomed  gentleman  with  a 
large  stomach,  who  breathed  loudly  through  his  nose;  the  book  agent 
with  his  oval  boxes  of  dried  figs  and  endless  thread  of  talk;  a  woman 
with  a  little  boy  who  wore  spectacles  and  who  was  continually 

king  unsteady  raids  upon  the  water-cooler,  and  the  brakeman  and 
tram  conductor  laughing  and  chatting  in  the  foreward  seat. 


A  Man's  Woman  379 

She  took  an  interest  in  every  unusual  feature  of  the  country 
through  which  the  train  was  speeding,  and  noted  each  stop  or  in 
crease  of  speed.  She  found  a  certain  diversion,  as  she  had  often 
done  before,  in  watching  for  the  mile-posts  and  in  keeping  count 
of  the  miles.  She  even  asked  the  conductor  at  what  time  the  train 
would  reach  the  city,  and  uttered  a  little  murmur  of  vexation  when 
she  was  told  that  it  was  a  half -hour  late.  The  next  instant  she  was 
asking  herself  why  this  delay  should  seem  annoying  to  her.  Then, 
toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon,  came  the  city  itself.  First  a 
dull -gray  smudge  on  the  horizon,  then  a  world  of  grimy  streets, 
rows  of  miserable  tenements  festooned  with  rags,  then  a  tunnel  or 
two,  and  at  length  the  echoing  glass-arched  terminal  of  the  station. 
Lloyd  alighted,  and,  remembering  that  the  distance  was  short, 
walked  steadily  toward  her  destination  till  the  streets  and  neigh 
borhood  became  familiar.  Suddenly  she  came  into  the  square. 
Directly  opposite  was  the  massive  granite  front  of  the  agency.  She 
paused  abruptly.  She  was  returning  to  the  house  after  abandoning 
her  post.  What  was  she  to  say  to  them,  the  other  women  of  her 
profession  ? 

Then  all  at  once  came  the  reaction.  Instantly  the  larger  ma 
chinery  of  the  mind  resumed  its  functions,  the  hurt  of  the  blow 
came  back.  With  a  fierce  wrench  of  pain  the  wound  reopened, 
full  consciousness  returned.  Lloyd  remembered  then  that  she  had 
proved  false  to  her  trust  at  a  moment  of  danger,  that  Ferriss  would 
probably  die  because  of  what  she  had  done,  that  her  strength  of 
will  and  of  mind  wherein  she  had  gloried  was  broken  beyond  re 
demption;  that  Bennett  had  failed  her,  that  her  love  for  him,  the 
one  great  happiness  of  her  life,  was  dead  and  cold  and  could  never 
be  revived,  and  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  stood  dishonored 
and  disgraced. 

Now  she  must  enter  that  house,  now  she  must  face  its  inmates, 
her  companions.  What  to  say  to  them?  How  explain  her  defec 
tion?  How  tell  them  that  she  had  not  left  her  post  of  her  own 
will?  Lloyd  fancied  herself  saying  in  substance  that  the  man 
who  loved  her  and  whom  she  loved  had  made  her  abandon  her 
patient.  She  set  her  teeth.  No,  not  that  confession  of  miserable 
weakness;  not  that  of  all  things.  And  yet  the  other  alternative, 
what  was  that?  It  could  be  only  that  she  had  been  afraid — she, 
Lloyd  Searight!  Must  she,  who  had  been  the  bravest  of  them  all, 
stand  before  that  little  band  of  devoted  women  in  the  light  of  a 
self-confessed  coward? 


A  Man's  Woman 

She  remembered  the  case  of  the  young  English  woman,  Harriet 
Freeze,  who,  when  called  upon  to  nurse  a  smallpox  patient,  had 
been  found  wanting  in  courage  at  the  crucial  moment,  and  had  dis 
covered  an  excuse  for  leaving  her  post.  Miss  Freeze  had  been 
expelled  dishonorably  from  the  midst  of  her  companions.  And 
now  she,  Lloyd,  standing  apparently  convicted  of  the  same  dis 
honor,  must  face  the  same  tribunal.  There  was  no  escape.  She 
must  enter  that  house,  she  must  endure  that  ordeal,  and  this  at 
precisely  the  time  when  her  resolution  had  been  shattered,  her  will 
broken,  her  courage  daunted.  For  a  moment  the  idea  of  flight 
suggested  itself  to  her — she  would  avoid  the  issue.  She  would  hide 
from  reproach  and  contumely,  and  without  further  explanation  go 
back  to  her  place  in  the  country  at  Bannister.  But  the  little  ex 
igencies  of  her  position  made  this  impossible.  Besides  her  nurse's 
bag,  her  satchel  was  the  only  baggage  she  had  at  that  moment,  and 
she  knew  that  there  was  but  little  money  in  her  purse. 

All  at  once  she  realized  that  while  debating  the  question  she  had 
been  sitting  on  one  of  the  benches  under  the  trees  in  the  square. 
The  sun  was  setting ;  evening  was  coming  on.  Maybe  if  she  waited 
itntil  six  o'clock  she  could  enter  the  house  while  the  other  nurses 
were  at  supper,  gain  her  room  unobserved,  then  lock  herself  in  and 
deny  herself  to  all  callers.  But  Lloyd  made  a  weary,  resigned  move 
ment  of  her  shoulders.  Sooner  or  later  she  must  meet  them  all  eye 
to  eye.  It  would  be  only  putting  off  the  humiliation. 

She  rose,  and,  turning  to  the  house,  began  to  walk  slowly  toward 
it.  Why  put  it  off?  It  would  be  as  hard  at  one  time  as  another. 
But  so  great  was  her  sense  of  shame  that  even  as  she  walked  she 
fancied  that  the  very  passers-by,  the  loungers  on  the  benches  around 
the  fountain,  must  know  that  here  was  a  disgraced  woman.  Was 
it  not  apparent  in  her  very  face,  in  the  very  uncertainty  of  her 
gait?  She  told  herself  she  had  not  done  wisely  to  sit  even  for  a 
moment  upon  the  bench  she  had  just  quitted.  She  wondered  if  she 
had  been  observed,  and  furtively  glanced  about  her.  There !  Was 
not  that  nurse-maid  studying  her  too  narrowly?  And  the  police 
man  close  at  hand,  was  he  not  watching  her  quizzically?  She 
quickened  her  gait,  moved  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  get  out  of 
sight,  to  hide  within  doors — where?  In  the  house?  There  where, 
so  soon  as  she  set  foot  in  it,  her  companions,  the  other  nurses,  must 
know  her  dishonor  ?  Where  was  she  to  go  ?  Where  to  turn  ?  What 
was  to  become  of  her? 

But  she  must  go  to  the  house.     It  was  inevitable.     She  went 


A  Man's  Woman  381 

forward,  as  it  were,  step  by  step.  That  little  journey  across  the 
square  under  the  elms  and  cottonwoods  was  for  her  a  veritable 
chemin  de  la  croLv.  Every  step  was  an  agony ;  every  yard  covered 
only  brought  her  nearer  the  time  and  place  of  exposure.  It  was 
all  the  more  humiliating  because  she  knew  that  her  impelling  mo 
tive  was  not  one  of  duty.  There  was  nothing  lofty  in  the  matter — 
nothing  self-sacrificing.  She  went  back  because  she  had  to  go 
back.  Little  material  necessities,  almost  ludicrous  in  their  petti 
ness,  forced  her  on. 

As  she  came  nearer  she  looked  cautiously  at  the  windows  of  the 
agency.  Who  would  be  the  first  to  note  her  home-coming?  Would 
it  be  Miss  Douglass,  or  Esther  Thielman,  or  Miss  Bergyn,  the 
superintendent  nurse?  What  would  first  be  said  to  her?  With 
what  words  would  she  respond?  Then  how  the  news  of  the  be 
trayal  of  her  trust  would  flash  from  room  to  room !  How  it  would 
be  discussed,  how  condemned,  how  deplored!  Not  one  of  the 
nurses  of  that  little  band  but  would  not  feel  herself  hurt  by  what 
she  had  done — by  what  she  had  been  forced  to  do.  And  the  news  of 
her  failure  would  spread  to  all  her  acquaintances  and  friends 
throughout  the  city.  Dr.  Street  would  know  it ;  every  physician 
to  whom  she  had  hitherto  been  so  welcome  an  aid  would  know  it. 
In  all  the  hospitals  it  would  be  a  nine  days'  gossip.  Campbell 
would  hear  of  it,  and  Hattie. 

All  at  once,  within  thirty  feet  of  the  house,  Lloyd  turned  about 
and  walked  rapidly  away  from  it.  The  movement  was  all  but 
involuntary;  every  instinct  in  her,  every  sense  of  shame,  brusquely 
revolted.  It  was  stronger  than  she.  A  power,  for  the  moment 
irresistible,  dragged  her  back  from  that  doorway.  Once  entering 
here,  she  left  all  hope  behind.  Yet  the  threshold  must  be  crossed, 
yet  the  hope  must  be  abandoned. 

She  felt  that  if  she  faced  about  now  a  second  time  she  would  in 
deed  attract  attention.  So,  while  her  cheeks  flamed  hot  at  the  mean 
ness,  the  miserable  ridiculousness  of  the  imposture,  she  assumed  a 
brisk,  determined  gait,  as  though  she  knew  just  where  she  were 
going,  and,  turning  out  of  the  square  down  a  by-street,  walked 
around  the  block,  even  stopping  once  or  twice  before  a  store,  pre 
tending  an  interest  in  the  display.  It  seemed  to  her  that  by  now 
everybody  in  the  streets  must  have  noted  that  there  was  something 
wrong  with  her.  Twice  as  a  passer-by  brushed  past  her  she  looked 
back  to  see  if  he  was  watching  her.  How  to  live  through  the  next 
ten  minutes?  If  she  were  only  in  her  room,  bolted  in,  locked  and 


jg2  A   Man's  Woman 

double-locked  in.  Why  was  there  not  some  back  way  through 
which  she  could  creep  to  that  seclusion  ? 

And  so  it  was  that  Lloyd  came  back  to  the  house  she  had  built, 
to  the  little  community  she  had  so  proudly  organized,  to  the  agency 
she  had  founded,  and  with  her  own  money  endowed  and  supported. 

At  last  she  found  herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  her  foot 
upon  the  lowest  one,  her  hand  clasped  the  heavy  bronze  rail.  There 
was  no  going  back  now.  She  went  up  and  pushed  the  button  of 
the  electric  bell,  and  then,  the  step  once  taken,  the  irrevocable  once 
dared,  something  like  the  calmness  of  resignation  came  to  her. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  Now  for  the  ordeal.  Rownie  opened 
the  door  for  her  with  a  cheery  welcome.  Lloyd  was  dimly  con 
scious  that  the  girl  said  something  about  her  mail,  and  that  she  was 
just  in  time  for  supper.  But  the  hall  and  stairway  were  deserted 
and  empty,  while  from  the  dining-room  came  a  subdued  murmur  of 
conversation  and  the  clink  of  dishes.  The  nurses  were  at  supper, 
as  Lloyd  had  hoped.  The  moment  favored  her,  and  she  brushed 
by  Rownie,  and  almost  ran,  panic-stricken  and  trembling,  up  the 
stairs. 

She  gained  the  hall  of  the  second  floor.  There  was  the  door  of 
her  room  standing  ajar.  With  a  little  gasp  of  infinite  relief,  she 
hurried  to  it,  entered,  shut  and  locked  and  bolted  it  behind  her, 
and,  casting  her  satchel  and  handbag  from  her,  flung  herself  down 
upon  the  great  couch,  and  buried  her  head  deep  among  the  cushions. 

At  Lloyd's  abrupt  entrance  Miss  Douglass  turned  about  from 
the  book-shelves  in  an  angle  of  the  room  and  stared  a  moment  in 
no  little  surprise.  Then  she  exclaimed: 

"Why,  Lloyd,  why,  what  is  it — what  is  the  matter?" 

Lloyd  sprang  up  sharply  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  then 
^ank  down  to  a  sitting  posture  upon  the  edge  of  the  couch.  Quietly 
enough  she  said: 

"Oh,  is  it  you  ?    I  didn't  know — expect  to  find  any  one — " 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?  I  just  ran  in  to  get  a  book — some 
thing  to  read.  I've  had  a  headache  all  day,  and  didn't  go  down  to 
supper." 

Lloyd  nodded.  "Of  course— I  don't  mind,"  she  said,  a  little 
wearily.  ^ 

"But  tell  me,"  continued  the  fever  nurse,  "whatever  is  the  mat 
ter?  When  you  came  in  just  now— I  never  saw  you  so — oh,  I 
understand,  your  case  at  Medford — " 

Lloyd's  hands  closed  tight  upon  the  edge  of  the  couch. 


A  Man's  Woman  383 

"No  one  could  have  got  a  patient  through  when  the  fever  had 
got  as  far  as  that,"  continued  the  other.  "This  must  have  been 
the  fifth  or  sixth  week.  The  second  telegram  came  just  in  time  to 
prevent  my  going.  I  was  just  going  out  of  the  door  when  the  boy 
came  with  it." 

"You?     What  telegram?"  inquired  Lloyd. 

"Yes,  I  was  on  call.  The  first  despatch  asking  for  another  extra 
nurse  came  about  two  o'clock.  The  four-twenty  was  the  first  train 
I  could  have  taken — the  two-forty-five  express  is  a  through  train 
and  don't  stop  at  Medford — and,  as  I  say,  I  was  just  going  out 
of  the  door  when  Dr.  Pitts's  second  despatch  came,  countermand 
ing  the  first,  and  telling  us  that  the  patient  had  died.  It  seems  that 
it  was  one  of  the  officers  of  the  "Freja"  expedition.  We  didn't 
know — " 

"Died  ?"  interrupted  Lloyd,  looking  fixedly  at  her. 

"But,  Lloyd,  you  mustn't  take  it  so  to  heart.  You  couldn't  have 
got  him  through.  No  one  could  at  that  time.  He  was  probably 
dying  when  you  were  sent  for.  We  must  all  lose  a  case  now  and 
then." 

"Died?"  repeated  Lloyd;  "Dr.  Pitts  wired  that  Mr.  Ferriss  died?" 

"Yes;  it  was  to  prevent  my  coming  out  there  uselessly.  He 
must  have  sent  the  wire  quite  an  hour  before  you  left.  It  was  very 
thoughtful  of  him." 

"He's  dead,"  said  Lloyd  in  a  low,  expressionless  voice,  look 
ing  vacantly  about  the  room.  "Mr.  Ferriss  is  dead."  Then  sud 
denly  she  put  a  fist  to  either  temple,  horror-struck  and  for  the  mo 
ment  shaken  with  hysteria  from  head  to  foot,  her  eyes  widening 
with  an  expression  almost  of  terror.  "Dead !"  she  cried.  "Oh,  it's 
horrible !  Why  didn't  I— why  couldn't  I—" 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  answered  Miss  Douglass  soothingly. 
"1  am  that  way  myself  sometimes.  It's  not  professional,  I  know, 
but  when  you  have  been  successful  in  two  or  three  bad  cases  you 
think  you  can  always  win;  and  then  when  you  lose  the  next  case 
you  believe  that  somehow  it  must  have  been  your  fault — that  if  you 
had  been  a  little  more  careful  at  just  that  moment,  or  done  a  little 
different  in  that  particular  point,  you  might  have  saved  your  pa 
tient.  But  you,  of  all  people,  ought  not  to  feel  like  that.  If  you 
could  not  have  saved  your  case  nobody  could." 

"It  was  just  because  I  had  the  case  that  it  was  lost." 

"Nonsense,  Lloyd ;  don't  talk  like  that.  You've  not  had  enough 
sleep;  your  nerves  have  been  overstrained.  You're  worn  out  and  a 


A  Man's  Woman 

little  hysterical  and  morbid.  Now  lie  down  and  keep  quiet,  and  I'll 
bring  you  your  supper.  You  need  a  good  night's  sleep  and  bromide 
of  potassium." 

When  she  had  gone  Lloyd  rose  to  her  feet  and  drew  her  hand 
wearily  across  her  eyes.  The  situation  adjusted  itself  in  her  mind. 
After  the  first  recoil  of  horror  at  Ferriss's  death  she  was  able  to 
see  the  false  position  in  which  she  stood.  She  had  been  so  certain 
already  that  Ferriss  would  die,  leaving  him  as  she  did  at  so  critical 
a  moment,  that  now  the  sharpness  of  Miss  Douglass's  news  was 
blunted  a  little.  She  had  only  been  unprepared  for  the  suddenness 
of  the  shock.  But  now  she  understood  clearly  how  Miss  Douglass 
had  been  deceived  by  circumstances.  The  fever  nurse  had  heard  of 
Ferriss's  death  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  supposed,  of  course,  that 
Lloyd  had  left  the  case  after,  and  not  before,  it  had  occurred.  This 
was  the  story  the  other  nurses  would  believe.  Instantly,  in  the  flood 
of  grief  and  remorse  and  humiliation  that  had  overwhelmed  her, 
Lloyd  caught  at  this  straw  of  hope.  Only  Dr.  Pitts  and  Bennett 
knew  the  real  facts.  Bennett,  of  course,  would  not  speak,  and  Lloyd 
knew  that  the  physician  would  understand  the  cruelty  and  injustice 
of  her  situation,  and  because  of  that  would  also  keep  silence.  To 
make  sure  of  this  she  could  write  him  a  letter,  or,  better  still,  see 
him  personally.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  him  the  truth.  But 
that  was  nothing  when  compared  with  the  world's  denunciation 
of  her. 

If  she  had  really  been  false  to  her  charge,  if  she  had  actually 
flinched  and  faltered  at  the  crucial  moment,  had  truly  been  the  cow 
ard,  this  return  to  the  house,  this  part  which  it  was  so  easy  to  play, 
would  have  been  hideous  and  unspeakable  hypocrisy.  But  Lloyd 
had  not  faltered,  had  not  been  false.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  had 
been  true  to  herself  and  to  her  trust.  How  would  she  deceive  her 
companions  then  by  allowing  them  to  continue  in  the  belief  of  her 
constancy,  fidelity,  and  courage?  What  she  hid  from  them,  or 
rather  what  they  could  not  see,  was  a  state  of  things  that  it  was 
impossible  for  any  one  but  herself  to  understand.  She  could  not— 
no  woman  could — bring  herself  to  confess  to  another  woman  what 
had  happened  that  day  at  Medford.  It  would  be  believed  that  she 
could  have  stayed  at  her  patient's -bedside  if  she  had  so  desired.  No 
one  who  did  not  know  Bennett  could  understand  the  terrible,  vast 
force  of  the  man. 

Try  as  she  would,  Lloyd  could  not  but  think  first  of  herself  at 
this  moment.  Bennett  was  ignored,  forgotten.  Once  she  had  loved 


A   Man's  Woman  385 

him,  but  that  was  all  over  now.  The  thought  of  Ferriss's  death,  for 
which  in  a  manner  she  had  been  forced  to  be  responsible,  came 
rushing  to  her  mind  from  time  to  time,  and  filled  her  with  a  horror 
and,  at  times,  even  a  perverse  sense  of  remorse,  almost  beyond 
words.  But  Lloyd's  pride,  her  self-confidence,  her  strength  of  char 
acter  and  independence  had  been  dearer  to  her  than  almost  anything 
in  life.  So  she  told  herself,  and,  at  that  moment,  honestly  believed. 
And  though  she  knew  that  her  pride  had  been  humbled,  it  was  not 
gone,  and  enough  of  it  remained  to  make  her  desire  and  strive 
to  keep  the  fact  a  secret  from  the  world.  It  seemed  very  easy. 
She  would  only  have  to  remain  passive.  Circumstances  acted 
for  her. 

Miss  Douglass  returned,  followed  by  Rownie  carrying  a 
tray.  When  the  mulatto  had  gone,  after  arranging  Lloyd's 
supper  on  a  little  table  near  the  couch,  the  fever  nurse  drew 
up  a  chair. 

"Now  we  can  talk,"  she  said,  "unless  you  are  too  tired.  I've 
been  so  interested  in  this  case  at  Medford.  Tell  me  what  was  the 
immediate  cause  of  death ;  was  it  perforation  or  just  gradual  col 
lapse?" 

"It  was  neither,"  said  Lloyd  quickly.    "It  was  a  hemorrhage." 

She  had  uttered  the  words  with  as  little  consciousness  as  a 
phonograph,  and  the  lie  had  escaped  her  before  she  was  aware. 
How  did  she  know  what  had  been  the  immediate  cause  of  death? 
What  right  had  she  to  speak?  Why  was  it  that  all  at  once  a  false 
hood  had  come  so  easy  to  her,  to  her  whose  whole  life  until  then  % 
had  been  so  sincere,  so  genuine? 

"A  hemorrhage?"  repeated  the  other.  "Had  there  been  many 
before  then?  Was  there  coma  vigil  when  the  end  came?  I— 

"Oh,"  cried  Lloyd  with  a  quick  gesture  of  impatience,  "don't, 
don't  ask  me  any  more.  I  am  tired — nervous ;  I  am  worn  out." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  must  be,"  answered  the  fever  nurse.  "We 
won't  talk  any  more  about  it." 

That  night  and  the  following  day  were  terrible.  Lloyd  neither 
ate  nor  slept.  Not  once  did  she  set  foot  out  of  her  room,  giving 
out  that  she  was  ill,  which  was  not  far  from  the  truth,  and  keep 
ing  to  herself  and  to  the  companionship  of  the  thoughts  and  terrors 
that  crowded  her  mind.  Until  that  day  at  Medford  her  life  had  run 
easily  and  happily  and  in  well-ordered  channels.  She  was  success 
ful  in  her  chosen  profession  and  work.  She  imagined  herself  to 
be  stronger  and  of  finer  fibre  than  most  other  women,  and  her  love 

Q— III— NORRIS 


3 86  A  Man's  Woman 

for  Bennett  had  lent  a  happiness  and  a  sweetness  to  her  life  dear 
to  her  beyond  all  words.  Suddenly,  and  within  an  hour's  time,  she 
had  lost  everything.  Her  will  had  been  broken,  her  spirit  crushed ; 
she  had  been  forced  to  become  fearfully  instrumental  in  causing  the 
death  of  her  patient — a  man  who  loved  and  trusted  her — while  her 
love  for  Bennett,  which  for  years  had  been  her  deep  and  abiding 
joy,  the  one  great  influence  of  her  life,  was  cold  and  dead,  and 
could  never  be  revived. 

This  in  the  end  came  to  be  Lloyd's  greatest  grief.  She  could 
forget  that  she  herself  had  been  humbled  and  broken.  Horrible, 
unspeakably  horrible,  as  Ferriss's  death  seemed  to  her,  it  was  upon 
Bennett,  and  not  upon  her,  that  its  responsibility  must  be  laid.  She 
had  done  what  she  could.  Of  that  she  was  assured.  Rut,  first 
and  above  all  things,  Lloyd  was  a  woman,  and  her  love  for  Bennett 
was  a  very  different  matter. 

When,  during  that  never-to-be-forgotten  scene  in  the  break 
fast-room  of  the  doctor's  house,  she  had  warned  Bennett  that  if 
he  persisted  in  his  insane  resolution  he  would  stamp  out  her  affec 
tion  for  him,  Lloyd  had  only  half  believed  what  she  said.  But 
when  at  last  it  dawned  upon  her  that  she  had  spoken  wiser  than 
she  knew,  that  this  was  actually  true,  and  that  now,  no  matter  how 
,  she  might  desire  it,  she  could  not  love  him  any  longer,  it  seemed 
as  though  her  heart  must  break.  It  was  precisely  as  though  Ben 
nett  himself,  the  Bennett  she  had  known,  had  been  blotted  out  of 
existence.  It  was  much  worse  than  if  Bennett  had  merely  died. 
Even  then  he  would  have  still  existed  for  her,  somewhere.  As  it 
was,  the  man  she  had  known  simply  ceased  to  be,  irrevocably, 
finally,  and  the  warmth  of  her  love  dwindled  and  grew  cold,  be 
cause  now  there  was  nothing  left  for  it  to  feed  upon. 

Never  until  then  had  Lloyd  realized  how  much  he  had  been  to 
her;  how  he  had  not  only  played  so  large  a  part  in  her  life,  but 
how  he  had  become  a  very  part  of  her  life  itself.  Her  love  for 
him  had  been  like  the  air,  like  the  sunlight;  was  delicately  knitted 
and  intertwined  into  all  the  innumerable  intricacies  of  her  life  and 
character.  Literally,  not  an  hour  had  ever  passed  that,  directly  or 
indirectly,  he  had  not  occupied  her  thoughts.  He  had  been  her  in 
spiration  ;  he  had  made  her  want. to  be  brave  and  strong  and  deter 
mined,  and  it  was  because  of  him  that  the  greater  things  of  the 
world  interested  her.  She  had  chosen  a  work  to  be  done  because 
he  had  set  her  an  example.  So  only  that  she  preserved  her  woman 
liness,  she,  too,  wanted  to  count,  to  help  on,  to  have  her  place  in  the 


A  Man's  Woman  387 

world's  progress.  In  reality  all  her  ambitions  and  hopes  had  been 
looking  toward  one  end  only,  that  she  might  be  his  equal ;  that  he 
might  find  in  her  a  companion  and  a  confidante ;  one  who  could  share 
his  enthusiasms  and  understand  his  vast  projects  and  great  aims. 

And  how  had  he  treated  her  when  at  last  opportunity  had  been 
given  her  to  play  her  part,  to  be  courageous  and  strong,  to  prevail 
against  great  odds,  while  he  stood  by  to  see?  He  had  ignored  and 
misunderstood,  and  tossed  aside  as  childish  and  absurd  that  which 
she  had  been  building  up  for  years.  Instead  of  appreciating  her 
heroism  he  had  forced  her  to  become  a  coward  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  She  had  hoped  to  be  his  equal,  and  he  had  treated  her  as  a 
school-girl.  It  had  all  been  a  mistake.  She  was  not  and  could  not 
be  the  woman  she  had  hoped.  He  was  not  and  never  had  been  the 
man  she  imagined.  They  had  nothing  in  common. 

But  it  was  not  easy  to  give  Bennett  up,  to  let  him  pass  out  of  her 
life.  She  wanted  to  love  him  yet.  With  all  her  heart  and  strength, 
in  spite  of  everything — woman  that  she  was,  she  had  come  to  that 
— in  spite  of  everything  she  wanted  to  love  him.  Though  he  had 
broken  her  will,  thwarted  her  ambitions,  ignored  her  cherished 
hopes,  misunderstood  and  mistaken  her,  yet  if  she  could,  Lloyd 
would  yet  have  loved  him,  loved  him  even  for  the  very  fact  that 
he  had  been  stronger  than  she. 

Again  and  again  she  tried  to  awaken  this  dead  affection,  to  call 
back  this  vanished  love.  She  tried  to  remember  the  Bennett  she 
had  known;  she  told  herself  that  he  loved  her;  that  he  had  said 
that  the  great  things  he  had  done  had  been  done  only  with  an  eye 
to  her  approval;  that  she  had  been  his  inspiration  no  less  than  he 
had  been  hers ;  that  he  had  fought  his  way  back,  not  only  to  life,  but 
to  her.  She  thought  of  all  he  had  suffered,  of  the  hardships  and 
privations  beyond  her  imagination  to  conceive,  that  he  had  under 
gone.  She  tried  to  recall  the  infinite  joy  of  that  night  when  the 
news  of  his  safe  return  had  come  to  her;  she  thought  of  him  at 
his  very  best — how  he  had  always  seemed  to  her  the  type  of  the 
perfect  man,  masterful,  aggressive,  accomplishing  great  projects 
with  an  energy  and  determination  almost  superhuman,  one  of  the 
world's  great  men,  whose  name  the  world  still  shouted.  She  called 
to  mind  how  the  very  ruggedness  of  his  face,  with  its  massive 
lines  and  harsh  angles,  had  attracted  her ;  how  she  had  been  proud 
of  his  giant's  strength,  the  vast  span  of  his  shoulders,  the  bull-like 
depth  of  his  chest,  the  sense  of  enormous  physical  power  suggested 
by  his  every  movement. 


A  Man's  Woman 

But  it  was  all  of  no  effect.  That  Bennett  was  worse  than  dead 
to  her.  The  Bennett  that  now  came  to  her  mind  and  imagination 
was  the  brutal,  perverse  man  of  the  breakfast-room  at  Medford, 
coarse,  insolent,  intractable,  stamping  out  all  that  was  finest  in  her, 
breaking  and  flinging  away  the  very  gifts  he  had  inspired  her  to 
offer  him.  It  was  nothing  to  him  that  she  should  stand  degraded  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  He  did  not  want  her  to  be  brave  and  strong. 
She  had  been  wrong ;  it  was  not  that  kind  of  woman  he  desired.  He 
had  not  acknowledged  that  she,  too,  as  well  as  he — a  woman  as  well 
as  a  man — might  have  her  principles,  her  standards  of  honor,  her 
ideas  of  duty.  It  was  not  her  character,  then,  that  he  prized;  the 
nobility  of  her  nature  was  nothing  to  him ;  he  took  no  thought  of 
the  fine-wrought  texture  of  her  mind.  How,  then,  did  she  appeal 
to  him  ?  It  was  not  her  mind ;  it  was  not  her  soul.  What,  then,  was 
left?  Nothing  but  the  physical.  The  shame  of  it;  the  degradation 
of  it !  To  be  so  cruelly  mistaken  in  the  man  she  loved,  to  be  able  to 
appeal  to  him  only  on  his  lower  side !  Lloyd  clasped  her  hands  over 
her  eyes,  shutting  her  teeth  hard  against  a  cry  of  grief  and  pain 
and  impotent  anger.  No,  no,  now  it  was  irrevocable;  now  her  eyes 
were  opened.  The  Bennett  she  had  known  and  loved  had  been 
merely  a  creature  of  her  own  imagining ;  the  real  man  had  suddenly 
discovered  himself;  and  this  man,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  hated  as  a 
victim  hates  its  tyrant. 

But  her  grief  for  her  vanished  happiness — the  happiness  that  this 
love,  however  mistaken,  had  brought  into  her  life — was  pitiful. 
Lloyd  could  not  think  of  it  without  the  choke  coming  to  her  throat 
and  the  tears  brimming  her  dull-blue  eyes,  while  at  times  a  veritable 
paroxysm  of  sorrow  seized  upon  her  and  flung  her  at  full  length 
upon  her  couch,  her  face  buried  and  her  whole  body  shaken  with 
stifled  sobs.  It  was  gone,  it  was  gone,  and  could  never  be  called  back. 
What  was  there  now  left  to  her  to  live  for?  Why  continue  her 
profession?  Why  go  on  with  the  work?  What  pleasure  now  in 
striving  and  overcoming?  Where  now  was  the  exhilaration  of  battle 
with  the  Enemy,  even  supposing  she  yet  had  the  strength  to  con 
tinue  the  fight?  Who  was  there  now  to  please,  to  approve,  to 
encourage?  To  what  end  the  days  of  grave  responsibilities,  the 
long,  still  nights  of  vigil? 

She  began  to  doubt  herself.  Bennett,  the  man,  had  loved  his 
Work  for  its  own  sake.  But  how  about  herself,  the  woman?  In 
what  spirit  had  she  gone  about  her  work?  Had  she  been  genuine, 
after  all?  Had  she  not  undertaken  it  rather  as  a  means  than  as  an 


A  Man's  Woman  389 

end — not  because  she  cared  for  it,  but  because  she  thought  he  would 
approve,  because  she  had  hoped  by  means  of  the  work  she  would 
come  into  closer  companionship  with  him?  She  wondered  if  this 
must  always  be  so — the  man  loving  the  work  for  the  work's  sake; 
the  woman,  more  complex,  weaker,  and  more  dependent,  doing  the 
work  only  in  reference  to  the  man. 

But  often  she  distrusted  her  own  conclusions,  and,  no  doubt, 
rightly  so.  Her  mind  was  yet  too  confused  to  reason  calmly,  soberly, 
und  accurately.  Her  distress  was  yet  too  keen,  too  poignant  to  per 
mit  her  to  be  logical.  At  one  time  she  was  almost  ready  to  admit 
rhat  she  had  misjudged  Bennett;  that,  though  he  had  acted  cruelly 
and  unjustly,  he  had  done  what  he  thought  was  best.  His  sacrifice 
of  Ferriss  was  sufficient  guarantee  of  his  sincerity.  But  this  mis 
trust  of  herself  did  not  affect  her  feeling  toward  him.  There  were 
moments  when  she  condoned  his  offence ;  there  was  never  an  instant 
she  did  not  hate  him. 

And  this  sentiment  of  hatred  itself,  independent  of  and  apart 
from  its  object,  was  distasteful  and  foreign  to  her.  Never  in  her 
life  had  Lloyd  hated  any  one  before.  To  be  kind,  to  be  gentle,  to 
be  womanly  was  her  second  nature,  and  kindness,  gentleness,  and 
womanliness  were  qualities  that  her  profession  only  intensified  and 
deepened.  This  newcomer  in  her  heart,  this  fierce,  evil  visitor, 
that  goaded  her  and  pricked  and  harried  her  from  day  to  day  and 
throughout  so  many  waking  nights,  that  roused  the  unwonted  flash 
in  her  eye  and  drove  the  hot,  angry  blood  to  her  smooth,  white  fore 
head  and  knotted  her  leveled  brows  to  a  dark  and  lowering  frown, 
had  entered  her  life  and  being,  unsought  for  and  undesired.  It  did 
not  belong  to  her  world.  Yet  there  it  sat  on  its  usurped  throne  de 
formed  and  hideous,  driving  out  all  tenderness  and  compunction, 
ruling  her  with  a  rod  of  iron,  hardening  her,  imbittering  her,  and 
belittling  her,  making  a  mockery  of  all  sweetness,  fleering  at  nobility 
and  magnanimity,  lowering  the  queen  to  the  level  of  the  fishwife. 

When  the  first  shock  of  the  catastrophe  had  spent  its  strength  . 
and  Lloyd  perforce  must  turn  again  to  the  life  she  had  to  live, ' 
groping  for  its  scattered,  tangled  ends,  piecing  together  again  as 
best  she  might  its  broken  fragments,  she  set  herself  honestly  to  drive 
this  hatred  from  her  heart.     If  she  could  not  love  Bennett,  at  least 
she  need  not  hate  him.     She  was  moved  to  this  by  no  feeling  of 
concern  for  Bennett.     It  was  not  a  consideration  that  she  owed  to 
him,  but  something  rather  that  was  due  to  herself.    Yet,  try  as  she 
would,  the  hatred  still  remained.     She  could  not  put  it  from  her. 


A  Man's  Woman 

Hurt  her  and  contaminate  her  as  it  did,  in  spite  of  all  her  best 
efforts,  in  spite  of  her  very  prayers,  the  evil  thing  abode  with  her, 
deep-rooted,  strong,  malignant.  She  saw  that  in  the  end  she  would 
continue  in  her  profession,  but  she  believed  that  she  could  not  go 
on  with  it  consistently,  based  as  it  was  upon  sympathy  and  love 
and  kindness,  while  a  firm-seated,  active  hatred  dwelt  with  her, 
harassing  her  at  every  moment,  and  perverting  each  good  impulse 
and  each  unselfish  desire.  It  was  an  ally  of  the  very  Enemy  she 
would  be  called  upon  to  fight,  a  traitor  that  at  any  moment  might 
open  the  gates  to  his  triumphant  entry. 

But  was  this  his  only  ally;  was  this  the  only  false  and  ugly 
inrader  that  had  taken  advantage  of  her  shattered  defence?  Had 
the  unwelcome  visitor  entered  her  heart  alone?  Was  there  not  a 
companion  still  more  wicked,  more  perverted,  more  insidious,  more 
dangerous  ?  For  the  first  time  Lloyd  knew  what  it  meant  to  deceive. 

It  was  supposed  by  her  companions,  and  accepted  by  them  as 
a  matter  of  course,  that  she  had  not  left  the  bedside  of  her  patient 
until  after  his  death.  At  first  she  had  joyfully  welcomed  this  mis 
take  as  her  salvation,  the  one  happy  coincidence  that  was  to  make 
her  life  possible,  and  for  a  time  had  ceased  to  think  about  it.  That 
phase  of  the  incident  was  closed.  Matters  would  readjust  them 
selves.  In  a  few  days'  time  the  incident  would  be  forgotten.  But 
she  found  that  she  herself  could  not  forget  it,  and  that  as  days 
went  on  the  idea  of  this  passive,  silent  deception  she  was  obliged  to 
maintain  occurred  to  her  oftener  and  oftener.  She  remembered 
again  how  glibly  and  easily  she  had  lied  to  her  friend  upon  the  even 
ing  of  her  return.  How  was  it  that  the  lie  had  flowed  so  smoothly 
from  her  lips?  To  her  knowledge  she  had  never  deliberately  lied 
before.  She  would  have  supposed  that,  because  of  this  fact,  false 
hood  would  come  difficult  to  her,  that  she  would  have  bungled, 
hesitated,  stammered.  But  it  was  the  reverse  that  had  been  the 
case.  The  facility  with  which  she  had  uttered  the  lie  was  what  now 
began  to  disturb  and  to  alarm  her.  It  argued  some  hidden  collapse 
of  her  whole  system  of  morals,  some  fundamental  disarrangement 
of  the  entire  machine. 

Abruptly  she  recoiled.  Whither  was  she  tending?  If  she  su 
pinely  resig-ned  herself  to  the  current  of  circumstance,  where  would 
she  be  carried?  Yet  how  was  she  to  free  herself  from  the  current, 
how  to  face  this  new  situation  that  suddenly  presented  itself  at  a 
time  when  she  had  fancied  the  real  shock  of  battle  and  contention 
was  spent  and  -past? 


A  Man's  Woman  391 

How  was  she  to  go  back  now?  How  could  she  retrace  her 
steps?  There  was  but  one  way — correct  the  false  impression.  It 
would  not  be  necessary  to  acknowledge  that  she  had  been  forced  to 
leave  her  post;  the  essential  was  that  her  companions  should  know 
that  she  had  deceived  them — that  she  had  left  the  bedside  before 
her  patient's  death.  But  at  the  thought  of  making  such  confession, 
public  as  it  must  be,  everything  that  was  left  of  her  wounded  pride 
revolted.  She  who  had  been  so  firm,,  she  who  had  held  so  tenaciously 
to  her  principles,  she  who  had  posed  before  them  as  an  example  of 
devotion  and  courage — she  could  not  bring  herself  to  that. 

"No,  no,"  she  exclaimed  as  this  alternative  presented  itself  to 
her  mind.  "No,  I  can  not.  It  is  beyond  me.  I  simply  can  not  do  it." 

But  she  could.  Yes,  she  could  do  it  if  she  would.  Deep  down 
in  her  mind  that  little  thought  arose.  She  could  if  she  wanted  to. 
Hide  it  though  she  might,  cover  it  and  bury  it  with  what  false  rea 
soning  she  could  invent,  the  little  thought  would  not  be  smothered, 
would  not  be  crushed  out.  Well,  then,  she  would  not.  Was  it  not 
her  chance ;  was  not  this  deception  which  others  and  not  herself 
had  created,  her  opportunity  to  recover  herself,  to  live  down  what 
had  been  done — what  she  had  been  forced  to  do,  rather?  Absolute 
right  was  never  to  be  attained;  was  not  life  to  be  considered  rather 
in  the  light  of  a  compromise  between  good  and  evil?  To  do  what 
one  could  under  the  circumstances,  was  not  that  the  golden  mean? 

But  she  ought.  And,  quick,  another  little  thought  sprang  up  in 
the  deeper  recesses  of  her  mind  and  took  its  place  beside  the  other. 
It  was  right  that  she  should  be  true.  She  ought  to  do  the  right. 
Argument,  the  pleas  of  weakness,  the  demands  of  expediency,  the 
plausibility  of  compromise  were  all  of  no  avail.  The  idea  "I  ought" 
persisted  and  persisted  and  persisted.  She  could  and  she  ought. 
There  was  no  excuse  for  her,  and  no  sooner  had  she  thrust  aside  the 
shifty  mass  of  sophistries  under  which  she  had  striven  to  conceal 
them,  no  sooner  had  she  let  in  the  light,  than  these  two  conceptions 
of  Duty  and  Will  began  suddenly  to  grow. 

But  what  was  she  to  gain?  What  would  be  the  result  of  such  a 
course  as  her  conscience  demanded  she  should  adopt?  It  was  in 
evitable  that  she  would  be  misunderstood,  cruelly  misjudged.  What 
action  would  her  confession  entail?  She  could  not  say.  But  re 
sults  did  not  matter;  what  she  was  to  gain  or  lose  did  not  matter. 
Around  her  and  before  her  all  was  dark  and  vague  and  terrible. 
If  she  was  to  escape  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  Suddenly  her 
own  words  came  back  to  her : 


A  Man's  Woman 

"All  we  can  do  is  to  hold  to  what  we  know  is  right,  and  trust 
that  everything  will  come  well  in  the  end." 

She  knew  what  was  right,  and  she  had  the  strength  to  hold  to 
it.  Then  all  at  once  there  came  to  Lloyd  a  grand,  breathless  sense 
of  uplifting,  almost  a  transfiguration.  She  felt  herself  carried  high 
above  the  sphere  of  little  things,  the  region  of  petty  considerations. 
What  did  she  care  for  consequences,  what  mattered  to  her  the  un 
just  condemnation  of  her  world,  if  only  she  remained  true  to  her 
self,  if  only  she  did  right?  What  did  she  care  for  what  she  gained? 
It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  gain  or  loss — it  was  a  question  of 
being  true  and  strong  and  brave.  The  conflict  of  that  day  at  Med- 
ford  between  the  man's  power  and  the  woman's  resistance  had  been 
cruel,  the  crisis  had  been  intense,  and  though  she  had  been  con 
quered  then,  had  it,  after  all,  been  beyond  recall?  No,  she  was  not 
conquered.  No,  she  was  not  subdued.  Her  will  had  not  been 
broken,  her  courage  had  not  been  daunted,  her  strength  had  not 
been  weakened.  Here  was  the  greater  fight,  here  was  the  higher 
test.  Here  was  the  ultimate,  supreme  crisis  of  all,  and  here,  at 
last,  come  what  might,  she  would  not,  would  not,  would  not  fail. 

As  soon  as  Lloyd  reached  this  conclusion  she  set  about  carrying 
her  resolution  into  effect. 

"If  I  don't  do  it  now  while  I'm  strong,"  she  told  herself,  "if  I 
wait,  I  never  will  do  it." 

Perhaps  there  was  yet  a  touch  of  the  hysterical  in  her  actions 
even  then.  The  jangled  feminine  nerves  were  yet  vibrating  far 
above  their  normal  pitch;  she  was  overwrought  and  oversensitive, 
for  just  as  a  fanatic  rushes  eagerly  upon  the  fire  and  the  steel,  pre 
ferring  the  more  exquisite  torture,  so  Lloyd  sought  out  the  more 
painful  situation,  the  more  trying  ordeal,  the  line  of  action  that 
called  for  the  greatest  fortitude,  the  most  unflinching  courage. 

She  chose  to  make  known  her  real  position,  to  correct  the  false 
impression  at  a  time  when  all  the  nurses  of  the  house  should  be 
together.  This  would  be  at  supper-time.  Since  her  return  from 
Medford,  Lloyd  had  shut  herself  away  from  the  other  inmates  of 
the  house,  and  had  taken  her  meals  in  her  room.  With  the  ex 
ception  of  Miss  Douglass  and  the  superintendent  nurse  no  one  had 
seen  her.  She  had  passed  her  time  lying  at  full  length  upon  her 
couch,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  or  pacing  the  floor,  or 
gazing  listlessly  out  of  her  windows,  while  her  thoughts  raced  at  a 
gallop  through  her  mind. 

Now,  however,  she  bestirred  herself.     She  had  arrived  at  her 


A  Man's  Woman  393 

final  decision  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  after  her  re 
turn,  and  at  once  she  resolved  that  she  would  endure  the  ordeal  that 
very  evening. 

She  passed  the  intervening  time,  singularly  enough,  in  very  care 
fully  setting  her  room  to  rights,  adjusting  and  readjusting  the  few 
ornaments  on  the  mantel-shelf  and  walls,  winding  the  clock  that 
struck  ship's  bells  instead  of  the  hours,  and  minutely  sorting  the 
letters  and  papers  in  her  desk.  It  was  the  same  as  if  she  were  going 
upon  a  long  journey  or  were  preparing  for  a  great  sickness.  Toward 
four  o'clock  Miss  Douglass,  looking  in  to  ask  how  she  did,  found  her 
before  her  mirror  carefully  combing  and  arranging  her  great  bands 
and  braids  of  dark-red  hair.  The  fever  nurse  declared  that  she  was 
immensely  improved  in  appearance,  and  asked  at  once  if  she  was 
not  feeling  better. 

"Yes,"  answered  Lloyd,  "very  much  better,"  adding:  "I  shall 
be  down  to  supper  to-night." 

For  some  reason  that  she  could  not  explain  Lloyd  took  unusual 
pains  with  her  toilet,  debating  long  over  each  detail  of  dress  and 
ornament.  At  length,  toward  five  o'clock,  she  was  ready,  and  sat 
down  by  her  window,  a  book  in  her  lap,  to  await  the  announcement 
of  supper  as  the  condemned  await  the  summons  to  execution. 

Her  plan  was  to  delay  her  appearance  in  the  dining-room  until 
she  was  sure  that  everybody  was  present;  then  she  would  go  down, 
and,  standing  there  before  them  all,  say  what  she  had  to  say,  state  the 
few  bald  facts  of  the  case,  without  excuse  or  palliation,  and  leave 
them  to  draw  the  one  inevitable  conclusion. 

But  this  final  hour  of  waiting  was  a  long  agony  for  Lloyd.  Her 
moods  changed  with  every  moment ;  the  action  she  contemplated 
presented  itself  to  her  mind  in  a  multitude  of  varying  lights.  At 
one  time  she  quivered  with  the  apprehension  of  it,  as  though  at  the 
slow  approach  of  hot  irons.  At  another  she  could  see  no  reason 
for  being  greatly  concerned  over  the  matter.  Did  the  whole  affair 
amount  to  so  much,  after  all  ?  Her  companions  would,  of  their  own 
accord,  make  excuses  for  her.  Risking  one's  life  in  the  case  of  a 
virulent,  contagious  disease  was  no  small  matter.  No  one  could 
be  blamed  for  leaving  such  a  case.  At  one  moment  Lloyd's  idea  of 
public  confession  seemed  to  her  little  less  than  sublime;  at  another, 
almost  ridiculous.  But  she  remembered  the  case  of  Harriet  Freeze, 
who  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  quiet,  unexpressed  force  of  opin 
ion  of  her  fellow-workers.  It  would  be  strange  if  Lloyd  should 
find  herself  driven  from  the  very  house  she  had  built. 


A  Man's  Woman 

The  hour  before  supper-time  seemed  interminable;  the  quarter 
passed,  then  the  half,  then  the  three-quarters.  Lloyd  imagined  she 
began  to  detect  a  faint  odor  of  the  kitchen  in  the  air.  Suddenly  the 
remaining  minutes  of  the  hour  began  to  be  stricken  from  the  dial  of 
her  clock  with  bewildering  rapidity.  From  the  drawing-room  im 
mediately  below  came  the  sounds  of  the  piano.  That  was  Esther 
Thielman,  no  doubt,  playing  one  of  her  interminable  Polish  com 
positions/  All  at  once  the  piano  stopped,  and,  with  a  quick  sinking 
of  the  heart,  Lloyd  heard  the  sliding  doors  separating  the  drawing- 
room  from  the  dining-room  roll  back.  Miss  Douglass  and  another 
one  of  the  nurses,  Miss  Truslow,  a  young  girl,  a  newcomer  in  the 
house,  came  out  of  the  former's  room  and  went  downstairs,  dis 
cussing  the  merits  of  burlap  as  preferable  to  wall-paper.  Lloyd  even 
heard  Miss  Truslow  remark: 

"Yes,  that's  very  true,  but  if  it  isn't  sized  it  will  wrinkle  in 
damp  weather." 

Rownie  came  to  Lloyd's  door  and  knocked,  and,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  said : 

"Dinneh's  served,  Miss  Searight,"  and  Lloyd  heard  her  make  the 
same  announcement  at  Miss  Bergyn's  room  further  down  the  hall. 
One  by  one  Lloyd  heard  the  others  go  downstairs.  The  rooms  and 
hallways  on  the  second  floor  fell  quiet.  A  faint,  subdued  murmur 
of  talk  came  to  her  ears  in  the  direction  of  the  dining-room.  Lloyd 
waited  for  five,  for  ten,  for  fifteen  minutes.  Then  she  rose,  drawing 
in  her  breath,  straightening  herself  to  her  full  height.  She  went  to 
the  door,  then  paused  for  a  moment,  looking  back  at  all  the  familiar 
objects — the  plain,  rich  furniture,  the  bookshelves,  the  great,  com 
fortable  couch,  the  old-fashioned  round  mirror  that  hung  between 
the  windows,  and  her  writing  desk  of  blackened  mahogany.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  in  some  way  she  was  never  to  see  these  things 
again,  as  if  she  were  saying  good-by  to  them  and  to  the  life  she  had 
led  in  that  room  and  in  their  surroundings.  She  would  be  a  differ 
ent  woman  when  she  came  back  to  that  room.  Slowly  she  de 
scended  the  stairs  and  halted  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  below.  It 
was  not  too  late  to  turn  back  even  now.  She  could  hear  her  com 
panions  at  their  supper  very  plainly,  and  could  distinguish  Esther 
Thielman's  laugh  as  she  exclaimed : 

"Why,  of  course,  that's  the  very  thing  I  mean." 

It  was  a  strange  surprise  that  Lloyd  had  in  store  for  them  all. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  heavy  and  thick.  Could  she  even  find  her 
voice  to  speak  when  the  time  came?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  put 


A  Man's  Woman  395 

it  off,  to  think  over  the  whole  matter  again  between  now  and  to 
morrow  morning?  But  she  moved  her  head  impatiently.  No,  she 
would  not  turn  back.  She  found  that  the  sliding  doors  in  the  draw 
ing-room  had  been  closed,  and  so  went  to  the  door  that  opened  into 
the  dining-room  from  the  hall  itself.  It  stood  ajar.  Lloyd  pushed 
it  open,  entered,  and,  closing  the  door  behind  her,  stood  there  leaning 
against  it. 

The  table  was  almost  full;  only  two  or  three  places  besides  her 
own  were  unoccupied.  There  was  Miss  Bergyn  at  the  head ;  the 
fever  nurse,  Miss  Douglass,  at  her  right,  and,  lower  down,  Lloyd 
saw  Esther  Thielman ;  Delia  Craig,  just  back  from  a  surgical  case 
of  Dr.  Street's ;  Miss  Page,  the  oldest  and  most  experienced  nurse 
of  them  all ;  Gilbertson,  whom  every  one  called  by  her  last  name ; 
Miss  Ives  and  Eleanor  Bogart,  who  had  both  taken  doctor's  de 
grees,  and  could  have  practiced  if  they  had  desired;  Miss  Went- 
worth,  who  had  served  an  apprenticeship  in  a  missionary  hospital  in 
Armenia,  and  had  known  Clara  Barton,  and,  last  of  all,  the  new 
comer,  Miss  Truslow,  very  young  and  very  pretty,  who  had  never 
yet  had  a  case,  and  upon  whose  diploma  the  ink  was  hardly  dry. 

At  first,  so  quietly  had  she  entered,  no  one  took  any  notice  of 

Lloyd,  and  she  stood  a  moment,  her  back  to  the  door,  wondering 

how   she  should  begin.     Everybody  seemed  to  be  in  the  best  of 

humor;  a  babel  of  talk  was  in  the  air;  conversations  were  going 

forward,  carried  on  across  the  table,  or  over  intervening  shoulders^ 

"Why,  of  course,  don't  you  see,  that's  the  very  thing  I  meant — " 

"—I  think  you  can  get  that  already  sized,  though,  and  with  a 

stencil  figure  if  you  want  it — " 

" — Really,  it's  very  interesting;  the  first  part  is  stupid,  but  she 
has  some  very  good  ideas." 

" — Yes,  at  Vanoni's.     But  we  get  a  reduction,  you  know — ' 
" — and,  oh,  listen  ;  this  is  too  funny ;  she  turned  around  and  said, 
very  prim  and  stiff,  'No,  indeed ;  I'm  too  old  a  woman.'    Funny !    If 
I  think  of  that  on  my  deathbed  I  shall  laugh — 

" — and  so  that  settled  it.     How  could  I  go  on  after  that — ?" 
" — Must  you  tack  it  on?    The  walls  are  so  hard— 
"Let  Rownie  do  it ;  she  knows.    Oh,  here's  the  invalid !" 
"Oh,  why,  it's  Lloyd  !    We're  so  glad  you're  able  to  come  down !" 
But  when  they  had  done  exclaiming  over  her  reappearance  among 
them  Lloyd  still  remained  as  she  was,  her  back  against  the  door, 
standing  very   straight,  her  hands  at  her  side.     She  did  not  im 
mediately  reply.     Heads  were  turned  in  her  direction.     The  talk 


A  Man's  Woman 

fell  away  by  rapid  degrees  as  they  began  to  notice  the  paleness  of  her 
face  and  the  strange,  firm  set  of  her  mouth. 

"Sit  down,  Lloyd,"  said  Miss  Bergyn;  "don't  stand.  You  are 
not  very  well  yet;  Til  have  Rownie  bring  you  a  glass  of  sherry." 

There  was  a  silence.    Then  at  length : 

"No,"  said  Lloyd  quietly.  "I  don't  want  any  sherry.  I  don't 
want  any  supper.  I  came  down  to  tell  you  that  you.  are  all  wrong  in 
thinking  I  did  what  I  could  with  my  typhoid  case  at  Medford.  You 
think  I  left  only  after  the  patient  had  died.  I  did  not ;  I  left  before. 
There  was  a  crisis  of  some  kind.  I  don't  know  what  it  was,  because 
I  was  not  in  the  sick-room  at  the  time,  and  I  did  not  go  when  I  was 
called.  The  doctor  was  not  there  either;  he  had  gone  out  and  left 
the  case  in  my  charge.  There  was  nobody  with  the  patient  but  a 
servant.  The  servant  called  me,  but  I  did  not  go.  Instead  I  came 
away  and  left  the  house.  The  patient  died  that  same  day.  It  is 
that  that  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Do  you  all  understand — perfectly?  I 
left  my  patient  at  the  moment  of  a  crisis,  and  with  no  one  with  him 
but  a  servant.  And  he  died  that  same  afternoon." 

Then  she  went  out,  and  the  closing  of  the  door  jarred  sharply 
upon  the  great  silence  that  had  spread- throughout  the  room. 

Lloyd  went  back  to  her  room,  closed  and  locked  the  door,  and, 
sinking  down  upon  the  floor  by  the  couch,  bowed  her  head  upon 
her  folded  arms.  But  she  was  in  no  mood  for  weeping,  and  her 
eyes  were  dry.  She  was  conscious  chiefly  that  she  had  taken  an 
irrevocable  step,  that  her  head  had  begun  to  ache.  There  was  no 
exhilaration  in  her  mind  now;  she  did  not  feel  any  of  the  satisfac 
tion  of  attainment  after  struggle,  of  triumph  after  victory.  More 
than  once  she  even  questioned  herself  if,  after  all,  her  confession 
had  been  necessary.  But  now  she  was  weary  unto  death  of  the 
whole  wretched  business.  Now  she  only  knew  that  her  head  was 
aching  fiercely ;  she  did  not  care  either  to  look  into  the  past  or  for 
ward  into  the  future.  The  present  occupied  her;  for  the  present 
her  head  was  aching. 

But  before  Lloyd  went  to  bed  that  night  Miss  Bergyn  knew  the 
whole  truth  as  to  what  had  happened  at  Dr.  Pitts's  house.  The 
superintendent  nurse  had  followed  Lloyd  to  her  room  almost  im 
mediately,  and  would  not  be  denied.  She  knew  very  well  that  Lloyd 
Searight  had  never  left  a  dying  patient  of  her  own  volition.  In 
tuitively  she  guessed  at  something  hidden. 

"Lloyd,"  she  said  decisively,  "don't  ask  me  to  believe  that  you 
went  of  your  own  free  will.  Tell  me  just  what  happened.  Why 


A  Man's  Woman  397 

did  you  go?  Ask  me  to  believe  anything  but  that  you — no,  I  won't 
say  the  word.  There  was  some  very  good  reason,  wasn't  there?" 

"I — I  can  not  explain,"  Lloyd  answered.  "You  must  think 
what  you  choose.  You  wouldn't  understand." 

But,  happily,  when  Lloyd's  reticence  finally  broke  Miss  Bergyn 
did  understand.  The  superintendent  nurse  knew  Bennett  only  by 
report.  But  Lloyd  she  had  known  for  years,  and  realized  that  if 
she  had  yielded,  it  had  only  been  after  the  last  hope  had  been  tried. 
In  the  end  Lloyd  told  her  everything  that  had  occurred.  But, 
though  she  even  admitted  Bennett's  affection  for  her,  she  said 
nothing  about  herself,  and  Miss  Bergyn  did  not  ask. 

"I  know,  of  course,"  said  the  superintendent  nurse  at  length, 
"you  hate  to  think  that  you  were  made  to  go ;  but  men  are  stronger 
than  women,  Lloyd,  and  such  a  man  as  that  must  be  stronger  than 
most  men.  You  were  not  to  blame  because  you  left  the  case,  and 
you  are  certainly  not  to  blame  for  Mr.  Ferriss's  death.  Now  I 
shall  give  it  out  here  in  the  house  that  you  had  a  very  good  reason 
for  leaving  your  case,  and  that  while  we  can't  explain  it  any  more 
particularly,  I  have  had  a  talk  with  you  and  know  all  about  it,  and 
am  perfectly  satisfied.  Then  I  shall  go  out  to  Medford  and  see  Dr. 
Pitts.  It  would  be  best,"  she  added,  for  Lloyd  had  made  a  gesture 
of  feeble  dissent.  "He  must  understand  perfectly,  and  we  need  not 
be  afraid  of  any  talk  about  the  matter  at  all.  What  has  happened 
has  happened  'in  the  profession,'  and  I  don't  believe  it  will  go  any 
further." 

Lloyd  returned  to  Bannister  toward  the  end  of  the  week.  How 
long  she  would  remain  she  did  not  know,  but  for  the  present  the 
association  of  the  other  nurses  was  more  than  she  was  able  to  bear. 

Later,  when  the  affair  had  become  something-  of  an  old  story,  she 
would  return,  resuming  her  work  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

Hattie  met  her  at  the  railway  station  with'  the  phaeton  and  the 
ponies.  She  was  radiant  with  delight  at  the  prospect  of  having 
Lloyd  all  to  herself  for  an  indefinite  period  of  time. 

"And  you  didn't  get  sick,  after  all?"  she  exclaimed,  clasping 
her  hands.  "Was  your  patient  as  sick  as  I  was?  Weren't  his 
parents  glad  that  you  made  him  well  again  ?" 

Lloyd  put  her  hand  over  the  little  girl's  mouth. 

"Let  us  not  talk  any  'shop/  Hattie,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile. 

But  on  the  morning  after  her  arrival  Lloyd  woke  in  her  own 
white  room  of  the  old  farmhouse,  abruptly  conscious  of  some  subtle 


A  Man's  Woman 

change  that  had  occurred  to  her  overnight.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  scene  in  the  breakfast-room  at  Medford  she  was  aware  of 
a  certain  calmness  that  had  come  to  her.  Perhaps  she  had  at  last 
begun  to  feel  the  good  effects  of  the  trial  by  fire  which  she  had 
voluntarily  undergone — to  know  a  certain  happiness  that  now  there 
was  no  longer  any  deceit  in  her  heart.  This  she  had  uprooted  and 
driven  out  by  force  of  her  own  will.  It  was  gone.  But  now,  on 
this  morning,  she  seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  not  all. 

Something  else  had  left  her — something  that  of  late  had 
harassed  her  and  goaded  her  and  imbittered  her  life,  and  mocked 
at  her  gentleness  and  kindness,  was  gone.  That  fierce,  truculent 
hatred  that  she  had  so  striven  to  put  from  her,  now  behold!  of  its 
own  accord,  it  had  seemed  to  leave  her.  How  had  it  happened? 
Before  she  had  dared  the  ordeal  of  confession  this  feeling  of  hatred, 
this  perverse  and  ugly  changeling  that  had  brooded  in  her  heart,  had 
seemed  too  strong,  too  deeply  seated  to  be  moved.  Now,  suddenly, 
it  had  departed,  unbidden,  without  effort  on  her  part. 

Vaguely  Lloyd  wondered  at  this  thing.  In  driving  deceit  from 
her  it  would  appear  that  she  had  also  driven  out  hatred,  that  the 
one  could  not  stay  so  soon  as  the  other  had  departed.  Could  the 
one  exist  apart  from  the  other?  Was  there,  then,  some  strange 
affinity  in  all  evil,  as,  perhaps,  in  all  good,  so  that  a  victory  over 
one  bad  impulse  meant  a  victory  over  many?  Without  thought  of 
gain  or  of  reward,  she  had  held  to  what  was  right  through  the  con 
fusion  and  storm  and  darkness.  Was  this  to  be,  after  all,  her  re 
ward,  her  gain  ?  Possibly ;  but  she  could  not  tell,  she  could  not  see. 
The  confusion  was  subsiding,  the  storm  had  passed,  but  much  of 
the  darkness  yet  remained.  Deceit  she  had  fought  from  out  her 
heart;  silently  Hatred  had  stolen  after  it.  Love  had  not  returned 
to  his  old  place,  and  never,  never  would,  but  the  changeling  was 
gone,  and  the  house  was  swept  and  garnished. 


VIII 

THE  day  after  the  funeral  Bennett  returned  alone  to  Dr.  Pitts's 
house  at  Medford,  and  the  same -evening  his  trunks  and  baggage, 
containing  his  papers — the  records,  observations,  journals,  and  log 
books  of  the  expedition — followed  him. 

As  Bennett  entered  the  gate  of  the  place  that  he  had  chosen  to 
be  his  home  for  the  next  year,  he  was  aware  that  the  windows  of 


A  Man's  Woman  399 

one  of  the  front  rooms  upon  the  second  floor  were  wide  open,  the 
curtains  tied  up  into  loose  knots ;  inside  a  servant  came  and  went, 
putting  the  room  to  rights  again,  airing  it  and  changing  the  furni 
ture.  In  the  road  before  the  house  he  had  seen  the  marks  of  the 
wheels  of  the  undertaker's  wagon  where  it  had  been  backed  up  to 
the  horse-block.  As  he  closed  the  front  door  behind  him  and  stood  for 
a  moment  in  the  hallway,  his  valise  in  his  hand,  he  saw  hanging  upon 
one  of  the  pegs  of  the  hat-rack,  the  hat  Ferriss  had  last  worn.  Ben 
nett  put  down  his  valise  quickly,  and,  steadying  himself  against  the 
wall,  leaned  heavily  against  it,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  his  eyes  closing. 

The  house  was  empty  and,  but  for  the  occasional  subdued 
noises  that  came  from  the  front  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  silent. 
Bennett  picked  up  his  valise  again  and  went  upstairs  to  the  rooms 
that  had  been  set  apart  for  him.  He  did  not  hang  his  hat  upon  the 
hat-rack,  but  carried  it  with  him. 

The  housekeeper,  who  met  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
showed  him  the  way  to  his  apartments,  inquired  of  him  as  to  the 
hours  he  wished  to  have  his  meals  served.  Bennett  told  her,  and 
then  added: 

"I  will  have  all  my  meals  in  the  breakfast-room,  the  one  you 
call  the  glass-room,  I  believe.  And  as  soon  as  the  front  room  is 
ready  I  shall  sleep  there.  That  will  be  my  room  after  this." 

The  housekeeper  stared.  "It  won't  be  quite  safe,  sir,  for  some 
time.  The  doctor  gave  very  strict  orders  about  ventilating  it  and 
changing  the  furniture." 

Bennett  merely  nodded  as  if  to  say  he  understood,  and  the 
housekeeper  soon  after  left  him  to  himself.  The  afternoon  passed, 
then  the  evening.  Such  supper  as  Bennett  could  eat  was  served 
according  to  his  orders  in  the  breakfast-room.  Afterward  he  called 
Kamiska,  and  went  for  a  long  walk  over  the  country  roads  in  a 
direction  away  from  the  town,  proceeding  slowly,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back.  Later,  toward  ten  o'clock,  he  returned.  He  went 
upstairs  toward  his  room  with  the  half-formed  idea  of  looking  over 
and  arranging  his  papers  before  going  to  bed.  Sleep  he  could  not ; 
he  foresaw  that  clearly. 

But  Bennett  was  not  yet  familiar  with  the  arrangement  of  the 
house.  His  mind  was  busy  with  other  things;  he  was  thoughtful, 
abstracted,  and  upon  reaching  the  stair  landing  on  the  second  floor, 
turned  toward  the  front  of  the  house  when  he  should  have  turned 
toward  the  rear.  He  entered  what  he  supposed  to  be  his  room, 
lighted  the  gas,  then  stared  about  him  in  some  perplexity. 


400  A  Man's  Woman 

The  room  he  was  in  was  almost  bare  of  furniture.  Even  part 
of  the  carpet  had  been  taken  up.  The  windows  were  wide  open ; 
a  stale  odor  of  drugs  pervaded  the  air,  while  upon  the  bed  nothing 
remained  but  the  mattress  and  bolster.  For  a  moment  Bennett 
looked  about  him  bewildered,  then  he  started  sharply.  This  was— 
had  been— the  sick-room.  Here,  upon  that  bed,  Ferriss  had  died ; 
here  had  been  enacted  one  scene  in  the  terrible  drama  wherein  he, 
Bennett,  had  played  so  conspicuous  a  part. 

As  Bennett  stood  there  looking  about  him,  one  hand  upon  the 
footboard  of  the  bed,  a  strange,  formless  oppression  of  the  spirit 
weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He  seemed  to  see  upon  that  naked 
bed  the  wasted,  fever-stricken  body  of  the  dearest  friend  he  had 
ever  known.  It  was  as  though  Ferriss  were  lying  in  state  there, 
with  black  draperies  hung  about  the  bier  and  candles  burning  at 
the  head  and  foot.  Death  had  been  in  that  room.  Empty  though  it 
was,  a  certain  religious  solemnity,  almost  a  certain  awe,  seemed  to 
bear  down  upon  the  senses.  Before  he  knew  it  Bennett  found  him 
self  kneeling  at  the  denuded  bed,  his  face  buried,  his  arms  flung 
wide  across  the  place  where  Ferriss  had  last  reposed. 

He  could  not  say  how  long  he  remained  thus — perhaps  ten  min 
utes,  perhaps  an  hour.  He  seemed  to  come  to  himself  once  more 
when  he  stepped  out  into  the  hall  again,  closing  and  locking  the 
door  of  the  death-room  behind  him.  But  now  all  thought  of  work 
had  left  him.  In  the  morning  he  would  arrange  his  papers.  It 
was  out  of  the  question  to  think  of  sleep.  He  descended  once  more 
to  the  lower  floor  of  the  silent  house,  and  stepped  out  again  into 
the  open  air. 

On  the  veranda,  close  beside  him,  was  a  deep-seated  wicker 
arm-chair.  Bennett  sank  down  into  it,  drawing  his  hands  wearily 
across  his  forehead.  The  stillness  of  a  summer  night  had  settled 
broadly  over  the  vast,  dim  landscape.  There  was  no  moon;  all 
the  stars  were  out.  Very  far  off  a  whippoorwill  was  calling  in 
cessantly.  Once  or  twice  from  the  little  orchard  close  at  hand  an 
apple  dropped  with  a  faint  rustle  of  leaves  and  a  muffled,  velvety 
impact  upon  the  turf.  Kamiska,  wide  awake,  sat  motionless  upon 
her  haunches  on  the  steps,  looking  off  into  the  night,  cocking  an 
ear  to  every  faintest  sound. 

Well,  Ferriss  was  dead,  and  he,  Bennett,  was  responsible.  His 
friend,  the  man  whom  most  he  loved,  was  dead.  The  splendid  fight 
he  had  made  for  his  life  during  that  ferocious  struggle  with  the  Ice 
had  been  all  of  no  effect.  Without  a  murmur,  without  one  com- 


A  Man's  Woman  401 

plaint  he  had  borne  starvation,  the  bitter  arctic  cold,  privation  be 
yond  words,  the  torture  of  the  frost  that  had  gnawed  away  his 
hands,  the  blinding  fury  of  the  snow  and  wind,  the  unceasing  and 
incredible  toil  with  sledge  and  pack — all  the  terrible  hardships  of 
an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  reach  the  Pole,  only  to  die  miserably 
in  his  bed,  alone,  abandoned  by  the  man  and  woman  whom,  of  all 
people  of  the  world,  he  had  most  loved  and  trusted.  And  he,  Ben 
nett,  had  been  to  blame. 

Was  Ferriss  conscious  during  that  last  moment  ?  Did  he  know ; 
would  he,  sometime,  somewhere,  know?  It  could  not  be  said. 
Forever  that  must  remain  a  mystery.  And,  after  all,  had  Bennett 
done  right  in  keeping  Lloyd  from  the  sick-room?  Now  that  all 
was  over,  now  that  the  whole  fearful  tragedy  could  be  judged  some 
what  calmly  and  in  the  light  of  reason,  the  little  stealthy  doubt  be 
gan  to  insinuate  itself. 

At  first  he  had  turned  from  it,  raging  and  furious,  stamping 
upon  it  as  upon  an  intruding  reptile.  The  rough-hewn,  simple- 
natured  man,  with  his  arrogant  and  vast  self-confidence,  his  blind, 
unshaken  belief  in  the  wisdom  of  his  own  decisions,  had  never  in 
his  life  before  been  willing  to  admit  that  he  could  be  mistaken, 
that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  resolve  upon  a  false  line  of  action. 
He  had  always  been  right.  But  now  a  change  had  come.  A  woman 
had  entangled  herself  in  the  workings  of  his  world,  the  world  that 
hitherto  had  been  only  a  world  of  men  for  him — and  now  he  faltered, 
now  he  scrutinized  his  motives,  now  the  simple  became  complicated, 
the  straight  crooked,  right  mingled  with  wrong,  bitter  with  sweet, 
falseness  writh  truth. 

He  who  had  faith  in  himself  to  remove  mountains,  he  who  could 
drive  his  fellow-men  as  a  herder  drives  his  sheep,  he  who  had 
forced  the  vast  grip  of  the  Ice,  had,  with  a  battering  ram's  force, 
crushed  his  way  through  those  terrible  walls,  shattered  and  breached 
and  broken  down  the  barriers,  now  in  this  situation  involving  a 
woman — had  he  failed  ?  Had  he  weakened  ?  And  bigger,  stronger, 
and  more  persistently  doubt  intruded  itself  into  his  mind. 

Hitherto  Bennett's  only  salvation  from  absolute  despair  had 
been  the  firm  consciousness  of  his  own  rectitude.  In  that  lay  his 
only  comfort,  his  only  hope,  his  one,  strong-built  fabric  of  defence. 
If  that  was  undermined,  if  that  was  eaten  away,  what  was  there 
left  for  him?  Carefully,  painfully,  and  with  such  minuteness  as 
he  could  command,  he  went  over  the  whole  affair  from  beginning 
to  end,  forcing  his  unwilling  mind — so  unaccustomed  to  such  work 


A  Man's  Woman 

—to  weigh  each  chance,  to  gauge  each  opportunity.  If  this  were 
so,  if  that  had  been  done,  then  would  such  results  have  followed? 
Suppose  he  had  not  interfered,  suppose  he  had  stood  aside,  would 
Lloyd  have  run  such  danger,  after  all,  and  would  Ferriss  at  this 
time  have  been  alive,  and  perhaps  recovering?  Had  he,  Bennett, 
been  absolutely  mad;  had  he  been  blind  and  deaf  to  reason;  had 
he  acted  the  part  of  a  brute — a  purblind,  stupid,  and  unutterably 
selfish  brute — thinking  chiefly  of  himself,  after  all,  crushing  the 
woman  who  was  so  dear  to  him,  sacrificing  the  life  of  the  man  he 
loved,  blundering  in  there,  besotted  and  ignorant,  acting  the  bully's 
part,  unnecessarily  frightened,  cowardly  where  he  imagined  him 
self  brave ;  weak,  contemptibly  weak,  where  he  imagined  himself 
strong?  Might  it  not  have  been  avoided  if  he  had  been  even  merely 
reasonable,  as,  in  like  case,  an  ordinary  man  would  have  been? 
He,  who  prided  himself  upon  the  promptness  and  soundness  of  his 
judgment  in  great  crises,  had  lost  his  head  and  all  power  of  self- 
control  in  this  greatest  crisis  of  all. 

The  doubt  came  back  to  him  again  and  again.  Trample  it, 
stifle  it,  dash  it  from  him  as  he  would,  each  time  it  returned  a  little 
stronger,  a  little  larger,  a  little  more  insistent.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
he  had  made  a  mistake;  perhaps,  after  all,  Lloyd  ran  no  great 
clanger;  perhaps,  after  all,  Ferriss  might  now  have  been  alive.  All 
at  once  Bennett  seemed  to  be  sure  of  this. 

Then  it  became  terrible.  Alone  there,  in  the  darkness  and  in 
the  night,  Bennett  went  down  into  the  pit.  Abruptly  he  seemed  to 
come  to  himself — to  realize  what  he  had  done,  as  if  rousing  from  a 
nightmare.  Remorse,  horror,  self-reproach,  the  anguish  of  bereave 
ment,  the  infinite  regret  of  things  that  never  were  to  be  again, 
the  bitterness  of  a  vanished  love,  self-contempt  too  abject  for  ex 
pression,  the  heart-breaking  grief  of  the  dreadful  might-have-been, 
one  by  one,  he  knew  them  all.  One  by  one,  like  the  slow  accumu 
lation  of  gigantic  burdens,  the  consequences  of  his  folly  descended 
upon  him,  heavier,  more  intolerably,  more  inexorably  fixed  with 
every  succeeding  moment,  while  the  light  of  truth  and  reason 
searched  every  corner  of  his  mind,  and  his  doubt  grew  and  hard 
ened  into  certainty. 

If  only  Bennett  could  have  believed  that,  in  spite  of  what  had 
happened,  Lloyd  yet  loved  him,  he  could  have  found  some  ray  of 
light  in  the  darkness  wherein  he  groped,  some  saving  strength  to 
bear  the  weight  of  his  remorse  and  sorrow.  But  now,  just  in  pro 
portion  as  he  saw  clearer  and  truer  he  saw  that  he  must  look  for  no 


A  Man's  Woman  403 

help  in  that  direction.  Being  what  Lloyd  was,  it  was  impossible 
for  her,  even  though  she  wished  it,  to  love  him  now — love  the  man 
who  had  broken  her !  The  thought  was  preposterous.  He  remem 
bered  clearly  that  she  had  warned  him  of  just  this.  No,  that,  too, 
the  one  sweetness  of  his  rugged  life,  he  must  put  from  him  as  well — 
had  already,  and  of  his  own  accord,  put  from  him. 

How  go  on?  Of  what  use  now  were  ambition,  endeavor,  and 
the  striving  to  attain  great  ends?  The  thread  of  his  life  was 
snapped ;  his  friend  was  dead,  and  the  love  of  the  one  woman  of  his 
world.  For  both  he  was  to  blame.  Of  what  avail  was  it  now  to 
continue  his  work? 

Ferriss  was  dead.  Who  now  would  stand  at  his  side  when  the 
darkness  thickened  on  ahead  and  obstacles  drew  across  the  path 
and  Death  overhead  hung  poised  and  menacing? 

Lloyd's  love  for  him  was  dead.  Who  now  to  bid  him  godspeed  as 
his  vessel's  prow  swung  northward  and  the  water  whitened  in  her 
wake?  Who  now  to  wait  behind  when  the  great  fight  was  dared 
again,  to  wait  behind  and  watch  for  his  home-coming;  and  when 
the  mighty  hope  had  been  achieved,  the  goal  of  all  the  centuries 
attained,  who  now  to  send  that  first  and  dearest  welcome  out  to 
him  when  the  returning  ship  showed  over  the  horizon's  rim,  flagged 
from  her  decks  to  her  crosstrees  in  all  the  royal  blazonry  of  an 
immortal  triumph? 

Now,  that  triumph  never  was  to  be  for  him.  Ambition,  too,  was 
dead ;  some  other  was  to  win  where  now  he  could  but  lose,  to  gain 
where  now  he  could  but  fail;  some  other  stronger  than  he,  more 
resolute,  more  determined.  At  last  Bennett  had  come  to  this,  he 
who  once  had  been  so  imperial  in  the  consciousness  of  his  power, 
so  arrogant,  so  uncompromising.  Beaten,  beaten  at  last;  defeated, 
daunted,  driven  from  his  highest  hopes,  abandoning  his  dearest  am 
bitions.  And  how,  and  why?  Not  by  the  Enemy  he  had  so  often 
faced  and  dared,  not  by  any  power  external  to  himself;  but  by  his 
very  self's  self,  crushed  by  the  engine  he  himself  had  set  in  motion, 
shattered  by  the  recoil  of  the  very  force  that  for  so  long  had  dwelt 
within  himself.  Nothing  in  all  the  world  could  have  broken  him  but 
that.  Danger,  however  great,  could  not  have  cowed  him ;  circum 
stances,  however  hopeless,  could  not  have  made  him  despair ;  ob 
stacles,  however  vast,  could  not  have  turned  him  back.  Himself 
was  the  only  Enemy  that  could  have  conquered ;  his  own  power  the 
only  one  to  which  he  would  have  yielded.  And  fate  had  so  ordered 
it  that  this  one  Enemy  of  all  others,  this  one  power  of  all  others,  had 


A  Man's  Woman 

turned  upon  and  rent  him.  The  mystery  of  it!  The  terror  of  it! 
Why  had  he  never  known?  How  was  it  he  had  never  guessed? 
What  was  this  ruthless  monster,  this  other  self,  that  for  so  long  had 
slept  within  his  flesh,  strong  with  his  better  strength,  feeding  and 
growing  big  with  that  he  fancied  was  the  best  in  him,  that  tricked 
him  with  his  noblest  emotion — the  love  of  a  good  woman — lured  him 
to  a  moment  of  weakness,  then  suddenly,  and  without  warning, 
leaped  at  his  throat  and  struck  him  to  the  ground? 

He  had  committed  one  of  those  offences  which  the  law  does  not 
reach,  but  whose  punishment  is  greater  than  any  law  can  inflict. 
Retribution  had  been  fearfully  swift.  His  career,  Ferriss,  and 
Lloyd — ambition,  friendship,  and  the  love  of  a  woman — had  been 
a  trinity  of  dominant  impulses  in  his  life.  Abruptly,  almost  in  a 
single  instant,  he  had  lost  them  all,  had  thrown  them  away.  He 
could  never  get  them  back.  Bennett  started  sharply.  What  was  this 
on  his  cheek;  what  was  this  that  suddenly  dimmed  his  eyes?  Had 
it  actually  come  to  this  ?  And  this  was  he — Bennett — the  same  man 
who  had  commanded  the  "Freja"  expedition.  No,  it  was  not  the 
same  man.  That  man  was  dead.  He  ground  his  teeth,  shaken  with  the 
violence  of  emotions  that  seemed  to  be  tearing  his  heart  to  pieces. 
Lost,  lost  to  him  forever !  Bennett  bowed  his  head  upon  his  folded 
arms.  Through  his  clinched  teeth  his  words  seemed  almost 
wrenched  from  him,  each  word  an  agony. 

"Dick — Dick,  old  man,  you're  gone,  gone  from  me,  and  it  was 
I  who  did  it;  and  Lloyd,  she  too — she — God  help  me!" 

Then  the  tension  snapped.  The  great,  massive  frame  shook  with 
grief  from  head  to  heel,  and  the  harsh,  angular  face,  with  its  salient 
jaw  and  hard,  uncouth  lines,  was  wet  with  the  first  tears  he  had 
ever  known. 

He  was  roused  at  length  by  a  sudden  movement  on  the  part 
of  the  dog.  Kamiska  had  risen  to  her  feet  with  a  low  growl,  then, 
as  the  gate-latch  clinked,  she  threw  up  her  head  and  gave  tongue 
to  the  night  with  all  the  force  of  her  lungs.  Bennett  straightened 
up,  thanking  fortune  that  the  night  was  dark,  and  looked  about  him. 
A  figure  was  coming  up  the  front  walk,  the  gravel  crunching  under 
foot.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the 
veranda  he  paused,  and  as  Bennett  made  a  movement  turned  in  his 
direction  and  said : 

"Is  this  Dr.  Pitts's  house?" 

Bennett's  reply  was  drowned  in  the  clamor  of  the  dog,  but  the 
other  seemed  to  understand,  for  he  answered: 


A  Man's  Woman  405 

"I'm  looking  for  Mr.  Ferriss — Richard  Ferriss,  of  the  'Freja'; 
they  told  me  he  was  brought  here." 

Kamiska  stopped  her  barking,  sniffed  once  or  twice  at  the  man's 
tronser  legs ;  then,  in  brusque  frenzy  of  delight,  leaped  against  him, 
licking  his  hands,  dancing  about  him  on  two  legs,  whining  and 
yelping. 

Bennett  came  forward,  and  the  man  changed  his  position  so 
that  the  light  from  the  half-open  front  door  shone  upon  his  face. 

"Why,  Adler!"  exclaimed  Bennett;  "well,  where  did  you  come 
from?" 

"Mr.  Bennett!"  almost  shouted  the  other,  snatching  off  his  cap. 
"It  ain't  really  you,  sir!"  His  face  beamed  and  radiated  a  joy  little 
short  of  beatitude.  The  man  was  actually  trembling  with  happi 
ness.  Words  failed  him,  and  as  with  a  certain  clumsy  tenderness 
he  clasped  Bennett's  hand  in  both  his  own  his  old-time  chief  saw 
the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh!  Maybe  I  ain't  glad  to  see  you,  sir — I  thought  you  had 
gone  away — I  didn't  know  where — I — I  didn't  know  as  I  was  ever 
going  to  see  you  again." 

Kamiska  herself  had  been  no  less  tremulously  glad  to  see  Adler 
than  was  Adler  to  see  Bennett.  He  stammered,  he  confused  him 
self,  he  shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  his  eyes 
danced,  he  laughed  and  choked,  he  dropped  his  cap.  His  joy  was 
that  of  a  child,  unrestrained,  unaffected,  as  genuine  as  gold.  When 
they  turned  back  to  the  veranda  he  eagerly  drew  up  Bennett's  chair 
for  him,  his  eyes  never  leaving  his  face.  It  was  the  quivering,  in 
articulate  affection  of  a  dog  for  its  master,  faithful,  submissive,  un 
questioning,  happy  for  hours  over  a  chance  look,  a  kind  word,  a 
touch  of  the  hand.  To  Adler's  mind  it  would  have  been  a  privilege 
and  an  honor  to  have  died  for  Bennett.  Why,  he  was  his  chief,  his 
king,  his  god,  his  master,  who  could  do  no  wrong.  Bennett  could  have 
slain  him  where  he  stood  and  Adler  would  still  have  trusted  him. 

Adler  would  not  sit  down  until  Bennett  had  twice  ordered  him 
to  do  so,  and  then  he  deposited  himself  in  a  nearby  chair,  in  as 
uncomfortable  a  position  as  he  could  devise,  allowing  only  the 
smallest  fraction  of  his  body  to  be  supported  as  a  mark  of  deference. 
He  remained  uncovered,  and  from  time  to  time  nervously  saluted. 
But  suddenly  he  remembered  the  object  of  his  visit 

"Oh,  but  I  forgot — seeing  you"  like  this,  unexpected,  sir,  clean 
drove  Mr.  Ferriss  out  of  my  mind.  How  is  he  getting  on  ?  I  saw 
in  the  papers  he  was  main  sick." 


A  Man's  Woman 

"He's  dead,"  said  Bennett  quietly. 

Adler  was  for  the  moment  stricken  speechless.  His  jaw 
dropped;  he  stared,  and  caught  his  breath. 

"Mr.  Ferriss  dead!"  he  exclaimed  at  length.  "I— I  can't  be 
lieve  it."  He  crossed  himself  rapidly.  Bennett  made  no  reply,  and 
for  upward  of  five  minutes  the  two  men  sat  motionless  in  the  chairs, 
looking  off  into  the  night.  After  a  while  Adler  broke  silence  and 
asked  a  few  questions  as  to  Ferriss's  sickness  and  the  nature  and 
time  of  his  death — questions  which  Bennett  answered  as  best  he 
might.  But  it  was  evident  that  Bennett,  alive  and  present  there  in 
the  flesh,  was  more  to  Adler  than  Ferriss  dead. 

"But  you're  all  right,  sir,  ain't  you  ?"  he  asked  at  length.  "There 
ain't  anything  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Bennett,  looking  at  him  steadily;  then  suddenly  he 
added : 

"Adler,  I  was  to  blame  for  Mr.  Ferriss's  death.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  me  he  would  probably  have  been  alive  to-night.  It  was  my 
fault.  I  did  what  I  thought  was  right,  when  I  knew  all  the  time, 
just  as  I  know  now,  that  I  was  wrong.  So,  when  any  one  asks  you 
about  Mr.  Ferriss's  death  you  are  to  tell  him  just  what  you  know 
about  it — understand.  Through  a  mistake  I  was  responsible  for  his 
death.  I  shall  not  tell  you  more  than  that,  but  that  much  you  ought 
to  know." 

Adler  looked  at  Bennett  curiously  and  with  infinite  amazement. 
The  order  of  his  universe  was  breaking  up  about  his  ears.  Bennett, 
the  inscrutable,  who  performed  his  wonders  in  a  mystery,  impene 
trable  to  common  eyes,  who  moved  with  his  head  in  the  clouds,  be 
hold  !  he  was  rendering  account  to  him,  Adler,  the  meanest  of  his 
subjects — the  king  was  condescending  to  the  vassal,  was  admitting 
him  to  his  confidence.  And  what  was  this  thing  he  was  saying,  that 
he  was  responsible  for  Ferriss's  death  ?  Adler  did  not  understand ; 
his  wits  could  not  adjust  themselves  to  such  information.  Ferriss 
was  dead,  but  how  was  Bennett  to  blame?  The  king  could  do  no 
wrong.  Adler  did  not  understand.  No  doubt  Bennett  was  referring 
to  something  that  had  happened  during  the  retreat  over  the  ice — 
something  that  had  to  be  done,  and  that  in  the  end,  and  after  all 
this  lapse  of  time,  had  brought  about  Mr.  Ferriss's  death.  In  any  case 
Bennett  had  done  what  was  right.  For  that  matter  he  had  been  re 
sponsible  for  McPherson's  death ;  but  what  else  had  there  been  to  do  ? 

Bennett  had  spoken  as  he  did  after  a  moment's  rapid  thinking. 
To  Adler's  questions  as  to  the  manner  of  the  chief  engineer's  death 


A  Man's  Woman  407 

Bennett  had  at  first  given  evasive  replies.  But  a  sudden  sense  of 
shame  at  being  compelled  to  dissemble  before  a  subordinate  had 
lashed  him  across  the  face.  True,  he  had  made  a  mistake — a  fear 
ful,  unspeakable  mistake — but  at  least  let  him  be  man  enough  to 
face  and  to  accept  its  consequences.  It  might  not  be  necessary  or 
even  expedient  to  make  acknowledgment  of  his  folly  in  all  quar 
ters,  but  at  that  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  men — at  least 
one  of  them — who  had  been  under  the  command  of  himself  and  his 
friend,  had  a  right  to  be  told  the  truth.  It  had  been  only  one  degree 
less  distasteful  to  undeceive  Adler  than  it  had  been  to  deceive  him 
in  the  first  place.  Bennett  was  not  the  general  to  explain  his 
actions  to  his  men.  But  he  had  not  hesitated  a  moment. 

However,  Adler  was  full  of  another  subject,  and  soon  broke  out 
with: 

"You  know,  sir,  there's  another  expedition  forming;  I  suppose 
you  have  heard — an  English  one.  They  call  it  the  Duane-Parsons 
expedition.  They  are  to  try  the  old  route  by  Smith  Sound.  They 
are  going  to  winter  at  Tasiusak,  and  try  to  get  through  the  sound 
as  soon  as  the  ice  breaks  up  in  the  spring.  But  Duane's  ideas  are 
all  wrong.  He'll  make  no  very  high  northing,  not  above  eighty- 
five,  I'll  bet  a  hat.  When  we  go  up  again,  sir,  will  you — will  you 
let  me — will  you  take  me  along?  Did  I  give  satisfaction  this  last — " 

"I'm  never  going  up  again,  Adler,"  answered  Bennett. 

"Sho!"  said  Adler  a  little  blankly.  "I  thought  sure— I  never 
thought  that  you — why,  there  ain't  no  one  else  but  you  can  do  it, 
captain." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  said  Bennett  listlessly.  "Duane  can — if  he 
has  luck.  I  know  him.  He's  a  good  man.  No,  I'm  out  of  it,  Adler ; 
I  had  my  chance.  It  is  somebody  else's  turn  now.  Do  you  want  to 
go  with  Duane?  I  can  give  you  letters  to  him.  He'd  be  glad  to 
have  you,  I  know." 

Adler  started  from  his  place. 

"Why  do  you  think — "  he  exclaimed  vehemently — "do  you  think 
I'd  go  with  anybody  else  but  you,  sir  ?  Oh,  you  will  be  going  some 
of  these  days,  I'm  sure  of  it.  We — we'll  have  another  try  at  it,  sir, 
before  we  die.  We  ain't  beaten  yet." 

"Yes,  we  are,  Adler,"  returned  Bennett,  smiling  calmly;  "we'll 
stay  at  home  now  and  write  our  book.  But  we'll  let  some  one  else 
reach  the  Pole.  That's  not  for  us — never  will  be,  Adler." 

At  the  end  of  their  talk  some  half-hour  later  Adler  stood  up, 
remarking : 


4o8  A  Man's  Woman 

"Guess  I'd  better  be  standing  by  if  I'm  to  get  the  last  train  back 
to  the  city  to-night.  They  told  me  at  the  station  that  she'd  clear 
about  midnight."  Suddenly  he  began  to  show  signs  of  uneasiness, 
turning  his  cap  about  between  his  fingers,  changing  his  weight  from 
foot  to  foot.  Then  at  length : 

"You  wouldn't  be  wanting  a  man  about  the  place?  would  you, 
sir?"  And  before  Bennett  could  reply  he  continued  eagerly,  "I've 
been  a  bit  of  most  trades  in  my  time,  and  I  know  how  to  take  care 
of  a  garden  like  as  you  have  here;  I'm  a  main  good  hand  with 
plants  and  flower  things,  and  I  could  help  around  generally."  Then, 
earnestly,  "Let  me  stay,  sir — it  won't  cost — I  wouldn't  think  of  tak 
ing  a  cent  from  you,  captain.  Just  let  me  act  as  your  orderly  for  a 
spell,  sir.  I'd  sure  give  satisfaction;  will  you,  sir — will  you?" 

"Nonsense,  Adler,"  returned  Bennett;  "stay,  if  you  like.  I  pre 
sume  I  can  find  use  for  you.  But  you  must  be  paid,  of  course." 

"Not  a  soumarquee,"  protested  the  other  almost  indignantly. 

The  next  day  Adler  brought  his  chest  down  from  the  city  and 
took  up  his  quarters  with  Bennett  at  Medford.  Though  Dr.  Pitts 
had  long  since  ceased  to  keep  horses,  the  stable  still  adjoined  the 
house,  and  Adler  swung  his  hammock  in  the  coachman's  old  room. 
Bennett  could  not  induce  him  to  room  in  the  house  itself.  Adler 
prided  himself  that  he  knew  his  place.  After  their  first  evening's 
conversation  he  never  spoke  to  Bennett  until  spoken  to  first,  and 
the  resumed  relationship  of  commander  and  subordinate  was  inex 
pressibly  dear  to  him.  It  was  something  to  see  Adler  waiting  on  the 
table  in  the  "glass-room"  in  his  blue  jersey,  standing  at  attention 
at  the  door,  happy  in  the  mere  sight  of  Bennett  at  his  meals.  In  the 
mornings,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  ready,  it  was  Adler's  privilege 
to  announce  the  fact  to  Bennett,  whom  he  usually  found  already  at 
work  upon  his  writing.  Returning  thence  to  the  dining-room, Adler 
waited  for  his  lord  to  appear.  As  soon  as  he  heard  Bennett's  step 
in  the  hall  a  little  tremor  of  excitement  possessed  him.  He  ran 
to  Bennett's  chair,  drawing  it  back  for  him,  and  as  soon  as  Bennett 
had  seated  himself  circled  about  him  with  all  the  pride  and  solici 
tude  of  a  motherly  hen.  He  opened  his  napkin  for  him,  delivered 
him  his  paper,  and  pushed  his  cup  of  coffee  a  half-inch  nearer  his 
hand.  Throughout  the  duration ,  of  the  meal  he  hardly  took  his 
eyes  from  Bennett's  face,  watching  his  every  movement  with  a 
glow  of  pride,  his  hands  gently  stroking  one  another  in  an  excess  of 
satisfaction  and  silent  enjoyment. 

The  days  passed;  soon  a  fortnight  was  gone  by.     Drearily,  me- 


A  Man's  Woman 


409 


chanically,  Bennett  had  begun  work  upon  his  book,  the  narrative 
of  the  expedition.  It  was  repugnant  to  him.  Long  since  he  had  lost 
all  interest  in  polar  exploration.  As  he  had  said  to  Adler,  he  was 
out  of  it,  finally  and  irrevocably.  His  bolt  was  shot ;  his  role  upon 
the  stage  of  the  world  was  ended.  He  only  desired  now  to  be  for 
gotten  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  lapse  into  mediocrity  as  easily  and 
quietly  as  he  could.  Fame  was  nothing  to  him  now.  The  thunder 
ing  applause  of  an  entire  world  that  had  once  been  his  was  mere 
noise,  empty  and  meaningless.  He  did  not  care  to  reawaken  it. 
The  appearance  of  his  book  he  knew  was  expected  and  waited  for 
in  every  civilized  nation  of  the  globe.  It  would  be  printed  in  lan 
guages  whereof  he  was  ignorant,  but  it  was  all  one  with  him  now. 

The  task  of  writing  was  hateful  to  him  beyond  expression,  but 
with  such  determination  as  he  could  yet  summon  to  his  aid  Bennett 
stuck  to  it,  eight,  ten,  and  sometimes  fourteen  hours  each  day.  In 
a  way  his  narrative  was  an  atonement.  Ferriss  was  its  hero.  Al 
most  instinctively  Bennett  kept  the  figure  of  himself,  his  own 
achievements,  his  own  plans  and  ideas,  in  the  background.  On  more 
than  one  page  he  deliberately  ascribed  to  Ferriss  triumphs  which 
no  one  but  himself  had  attained.  It  was  Ferriss  who  was  the  leader, 
the  victor  to  whom  all  laurels  were  due.  It  was  Ferriss  whose  ex 
ample  had  stimulated  the  expedition  to  its  best  efforts  in  the  dark 
est  hours;  it  was,  practically,  Ferriss  wHo  had  saved  the  party 
after  the  destruction  of  the  ship;  whose  determination,  unbroken 
courage,  endurance,  and  intelligence  had  pervaded  all  minds  and 
hearts  during  the  retreat  to  Kolyuchin  Bay. 

"Though  nominally  in  command,"  wrote  Bennett,  "I  continually 
gave  place  to  him.  Without  his  leadership  we  should  all,  unques 
tionably,  have  perished  before  even  reaching  land.  His  resolution 
to  conquer,  at  whatever  cost,  was  an  inspiration  to  us  all.  Where 
he  showed  the  way  we  had  to  follow ;  his  courage  was  never  daunted, 
his  hope  was  never  dimmed,  his  foresight,  his  intelligence,  his  in 
genuity  in  meeting  and  dealing  with  apparently  unsolvable  prob 
lems  were  nothing  short  of  marvelous.  His  was  the  genius  of  lead 
ership.  He  was  the  explorer,  born  to  his  work." 

One  day,  just  after  luncheon,  as  Bennett,  according  to  his  cus 
tom,  v/as  walking  in  the  garden  by  the  house,  smoking  a  cigar 
before  returning  to  his  work,  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  bleed 
ing  at  the  nose.  It  was  but  a  trifling  matter,  and  passed  off  in  a 
few  moments,  but  the  fact  of  its  occurrence  directed  his  attention  to 
the  state  of  his  health,  and  he  told  himself  that  for  the  last  few 

R— III— NORRIS 


4IO  A  Man's  Woman 

days  he  had  not  been  at  all  his  accustomed  self.  There  had  been 
dull  pains  in  his  back  and  legs ;  more  than  once  his  head  had  pained 
him,  and  of  late  the  continuance  of  his  work  had  been  growing 
steadily  more  obnoxious  to  him,  the  very  physical  effort  of  driving 
the  pen  from  line  to  line  was  a  burden. 

"Hum!"  he  said  to  himself  later  on  in  the  day,  when  the  bleed 
ing  at  the  nose  returned  upon  him,  "I  think  we  need  a  little  quinine." 

But  the  next  day  he  found  he  could  not  eat,  and  all  the  afternoon, 
though  he  held  doggedly  to  his  work,  he  was  troubled  with  nausea. 
At  times  a  great  weakness,  a  relaxing  of  all  the  muscles,  came  over 
him.  In  the  evening  he  sent  a  note  to  Dr.  Pitts's  address  in  the 
city,  asking  him  to  come  down  to  Medford  the  next  day. 

On  the  Monday  morning  of  the  following  week,  some  two  hours 
after  breakfast,  Lloyd  met  Miss  Douglass  on  the  stairs,  dressed  for 
the  street  and  carrying  her  nurse's  bag. 

"Are  you  going  out?"  she  asked  of  the  fever  nurse  in  some  as 
tonishment.  "Where  are  you  going?"  for  Lloyd  had  returned  to 
duty,  and  it  was  her  name  that  now  stood  at  the  top  of  the  list; 
"I  thought  it  was  my  turn  to  go  out,"  she  added. 

Miss  Douglass  was  evidently  much  confused.  Her  meeting  with 
Lloyd  had  apparently  been  unexpected.  She  halted  upon  the  stairs 
in  great  embarrassment,  stammering: 

"No — no,  I'm  on  call.  I — I  was  called  out  of  my  turn — spe 
cially  called — that  was  it." 

"Were  you?"  demanded  Lloyd  sharply,  for  the  other  nurse 
was  disturbed  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

"Well,  then ;  no,  I  wasn't,  but  the  superintendent — Miss  Bergyn 
— she  thought — she  advised — you  had  better  see  her." 

"I  will  see  her,"  declared  Lloyd,  "but  don't  you  go  till  I  find  out 
why  I  was  skipped." 

Lloyd  hurried  at  once  to  Miss  Bergyn's  room,  indignant  at  this 
slight.  Surely,  after  what  had  happened,  she  was  entitled  to  more 
consideration  than  this.  Of  all  the  staff  in  the  house  she  should 
have  been  the  one  to  be  preferred. 

Miss  Bergyn  rose  at  Lloyd's  sudden  entrance  into  her  room,  and 
to  her  question  responded : 

"It  was  only  because  I  wanted  to  spare  you  further  trouble  and 
—and  embarrassment,  Lloyd,  that  I  told  Miss  Douglass  to  take 
your  place.  This  call  is  from  Medford.  Dr.  Pitts  was  here  himself 
this  morning,  and  he  thought  as  I  did." 


A  Man's  Woman  411 

"Thought  what?     I   don't  understand." 

"It  seemed  to  me,"  answered  the  superintendent  nurse,  "that  this 
one  case  of  all  others  would  be  the  hardest,  the  most  disagreeable 
for  you  to  take.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Bennett  has  leased  Dr.  Pitts's 
house  from  him.  He  is  there  now.  At  the  time  when  Mr.  Ferriss 
was  beginning  to  be  ill  Mr.  Bennett  was  with  him  a  great  deal  and 
undertook  to  nurse  him  till  Dr.  Pitts  interfered  and  put  a  profes 
sional  nurse  on  the  'case.  Since  then,  too,  the  doctor  has  found  out 
that  Mr.  Bennett  has  exposed  himself  imprudently.  At  any  rate, 
in  some  way  he  has  contracted  the  same  disease  and  is  rather  seri- 
iously  ill  with  it.  Dr.  Pitts  wants  us  to  send  him  a  nurse  at  once. 
It  just  happened  that  it  was  your  turn,  and  I  thought  I  had  better 
skip  your  name  and  send  Louise  Douglass." 

Lloyd  sank  into  a  chair,  her  hands  falling  limply  in  her  lap.  A 
frown  of  perplexity  gathered  on  her  forehead.  But  suddenly  she 
exclaimed : 

"I  know — that's  all  as  it  may  be,  but  all  the  staff  know  that  it  is 
my  turn  to  go ;  everybody  in  the  house  knows  who  is  on  call.  How 
will  it  be — what  will  be  thought  when  it  is  known  that  I  haven't 
gone — and  after — after  my  failing  once — after  this — this  other  af 
fair?  No,  I  must  go.  I,  of  all  people,  must  go — and  just  because 
it  5s  a  typhoid  case,  like  the  other." 

"But,  Lloyd,  how  can  you?" 

True,  how  could  she?  Her  patient  would  be  the  same  man  who 
had  humiliated  her  and  broken  her,  had  so  cruelly  misunderstood 
and  wronged  her,  for  whom  all  her  love  was  dead.  How  could  she 
face  him  again?  Yet  how  refuse  to  take  the  case?  How  explain 
a  second  failure  to  her  companions?  Lloyd  made  a  little  move 
ment  of  distress,  clasping  her  hands  together.  How  the  compli 
cations  followed  fast  upon  each  other !  No  sooner  was  one  difficult 
.situation  met  and  disposed  of  than  another  presented  itself.  Ben 
nett  was  nothing  to  her  now,  yet,  for  all  that,  she  recoiled  instinc 
tively  from  meeting  him  again.  Not  only  must  she  meet  him,  but 
she  must  be  with  him  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour,  at  his  very 
side,  in  all  the  intimacy  that  the  sick-room  involved.  On  the  other 
hand,  how  could  she  decline  this  case?  The  staff  might  condone 
one  apparent  and  inexplicable  defection;  another  would  certainly 
not  be  overlooked.  But  was  not  this  new  situation  a  happy  and 
unlooked-for  opportunity  to  vindicate  her  impaired  prestige  in  the 
eyes  of  her  companions  ?  Lloyd  made  up  her  mind  upon  the  instant. 
She  rose. 


A  Man's  Woman 

"I  shall  take  the  case,"  she  said. 

She  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  herself.  Hardly  an  instant  had 
she  hesitated.  On  that  other  occasion  when  she  had  believed  it 
right  to  make  confession  to  her  associates  it  had  been  hard — at 
times  almost  impossible — for  her  to  do  her  duty  as  she  saw  and 
understood  it.  This  new  complication  was  scarcely  less  difficult, 
but  once  having  attained  the  fine,  moral  rigor  that  had  carried  her 
through  her  former  ordeal,  it  became  easy  now  to  do  right  under 
all  or  any  circumstances,  however  adverse.  If  she  had  failed  then, 
she  certainly  would  have  failed  now.  That  she  had  succeeded  then 
made  it  all  the  easier  to  succeed  now.  Dimly  Lloyd  commenced  to 
understand  that  the  mastery  of  self,  the  steady,  firm  control  of 
natural,  intuitive  impulses,  selfish  because  natural,  was  a  progres 
sion.  Each  victory  not  only  gained  the  immediate  end  in  view,  but 
braced  the  mind  and  increased  the  force  of  will  for  the  next  shock, 
the  next  struggle.  She  had  imagined  and  had  told  herself  that  Ben 
nett  had  broken  her  strength  for  good.  But  was  it  really  so?  Had 
not  defeat  in  that  case  been  only  temporary?  Was  she  not  slowly 
getting  back  her  strength  by  an  unflinching  adherence  to  the  simple, 
fundamental  principles  of  right,  and  duty,  and  truth  ?  Was  not  the 
struggle  with  one's  self  the  greatest  fight  of  all,  greater,  far  greater 
than  had  been  the  conflict  between  Bennett's  will  and  her  own  ? 

Within  the  hour  she  found  herself  once  again  on  her  way  to 
Medford.  How  much  had  happened,  through  what  changes  had 
she  passed  since  the  occasion  of  her  first  journey ;  and  Bennett,  how 
he,  too,  changed;  how  different  he  had  come  to  stand  in  her  esti 
mation!  Once  the  thought  that  he  was  in  danger  had  been  a  con 
stant  terror  to  her,  and  haunted  her  days  and  lurked  at  her  side 
through  many  a  waking  night.  Was  it  possible  that  now  his  life 
or  death  was  no  more  to  her  than  that  of  any  of  her  former  pa 
tients?  She  could  not  say;  she  avoided  answering  the  question. 
Certainly  her  heart  beat  no  faster  at  this  moment  to  know  that  he 
was  in  the  grip  of  a  perilous  disease.  She  told  herself  that  her  Ben 
nett  was  dead  already ;  that  she  was  coming  back  to  Medford  not  to 
care  for  and  watch  over  the  individual,  but  to  combat  the  disease. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  doctor's  house  in  Medford,  a  strange- 
looking  man  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  asked  immediately  if  she 
was  the  nurse. 

"Yes,"  said  Lloyd,  "I  am.    Is  Dr.  Pitts  here?" 

"Upstairs  in  his  room,"  answered  the  other  in  a  whisper,  clos- 
;  ing  the  front  door  with  infinite  softness.  "He  won't  let  me  go  in, 


A  Man's  Woman  413 

the  doctor  won't;  I — I  ain't  seen  him  in  four  days.  Ask  the  doctor  if 
I  can't  just  have  a  blink  at  him — just  a  little  blink  through  the  crack 
of  the  door.  Just  think,  Miss,  I  ain't  seen  him  in  four  days !  Just 
think  of  that !  And  look  here,  they  ain't  giving  him  enough  to  eat 
— nothing  but  milk  and  chicken  soup  with  rice  in  it.  He  never  did 
like  rice ;  that's  no  kind  of  rations  for  a  sick  man.  I  fixed  him  up  a 
bit  of  duff  yesterday,  what  he  used  to  like  so  much  aboard  ship,  and 
Pitts  wouldn't  let  him  have  it.  He  regularly  laughed  in  my  face." 

Lloyd  sent  word  to  the  doctor  by  the  housekeeper  that  she  had 
arrived,  and  on  going  up  found  Pitts  waiting  for  her  at  the  door 
of  the  sick-room,  not  that  which  had  been  occupied  by  Ferriss,  but 
another — the  guest-chamber  of  the  house,  situated  toward  the  rear 
of  the  building. 

"Why,  I  expected  Miss  Douglass!"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  a 
low  voice  as  soon  as  his  eye  fell  upon  Lloyd.  "Any  one  of  them 
but  you!" 

"I  had  to  come,"  Lloyd  answered  quietly,  flushing  hotly  for  all 
that.  "It  was  my  turn,  and  it  was  not  right  for  me  to  stay  away." 

The  doctor  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  dismissed  the  subject, 
putting  his  chin  in  the  air  as  if  to  say  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  his 
affair. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  queer  to  see  how  things  will  tangle  them 
selves  sometimes.  I  don't  know  whether  he  took  this  thing  from 
Ferriss  or  not.  Both  of  them  were  exposed  to  the  same  conditions 
when  their  expedition  went  to  pieces  and  they  were  taken  off  by 
the  whaling  ships — bad  water,  weakened  constitution,  not  much 
power  of  resistance;  in  prime  condition  for  the  bacillus,  and  the 
same  cause  might  have  produced  the  same  effect;  at  any  rate,  he's 
in  a  bad  way." 

"Is  he — very  bad?"  asked  Lloyd. 

"Well,  he's  not  the  hang-on  sort  that  Mr.  Ferriss  was ;  nothing 
undecided  about  Captain  Ward  Bennett;  when  he's  sick,  he's  sick; 
rushes  right  at  it  like  a  blind  bull.  He's  as  bad  now  as  Mr.  Ferriss 
was  in  his  third  week." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  recognize  me?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "No ;  delirious  most  of  the  time — 
of  course — regulation  thing.  If  we  don't  keep  the  fever  down  he'll 
go  out  sure.  That's  the  danger  in  his  case.  Look  at  him  yourself ; 
here  he  is.  The  devil !  The  animal  is  sitting  up  again." 

As  Lloyd  entered  the  room  she  saw  Bennett  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  his  bed,  staring  straight  before  him,  his  small  eyes,  with  their 


A  Man's  Woman 

deforming  cast,  open  to  their  fullest  extent,  the  fingers  of  his 
shrunken,  bony  hands  dancing  nervously  on  the  coverlet.  A  week's 
growth  of  stubble  blackened  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  Without 
a  moment's  pause  he  mumbled  and  muttered  with  astonishing 
rapidity,  but  for  the  most  part  the  words  were  indistinguishable. 
It  was,  indeed,  not  the  same  Bennett,  Lloyd  had  last  seen.  The 
great  body  was  collapsed  upon  itself;  the  skin  of  the  face  was  like 
dry,  brown  parchment,  and  behind  it  the  big,  massive  bones  stood 
out  in  great  knobs  and  ridges.  It  needed  but  a  glance  to  know 
that  here  was  a  man  dangerously  near  to  his  death.  While  Lloyd 
was  removing  her  hat  and  preparing  herself  for  her  work  the  doc 
tor  got  Bennett  upon  his  back  again  and  replenished  the  ice-pack 
about  his  head. 

"Not  much  strength  left  in  our  friend  now,"  he  murmured. 

"How  long  has  he  been  like  this  ?"  asked  Lloyd  as  she  arranged 
the  contents  of  her  nurse's  bag  on  the  table  near  the  window. 

"Pretty  close  to  eight  hours  now.  He  was  conscious  yesterday 
morning,  however,  for  a  little  while,  and  wanted  to  know  Avhat  his 
chances  were." 

They  were  neither  good  nor  many;  the  strength  once  so  formi 
dable  was  ebbing  away  like  a  refluent  tide,  and  that  with  ominous 
swiftness.  Stimulate  the  life  as  the  doctor  would,  strive  against 
the  enemy's  advance  as  Lloyd  might,  Bennett  continued  to  sink. 

"The  devil  of  it  is,"  muttered  the  doctor,  "that  he  don't  seem 
to  care.  He  had  as  soon  give  up  as  not.  It's  hard  to  save  a  patient 
that  don't  want  to  save  himself.  If  he'd  fight  for  his  life  as  he  did 
in  the  Arctic,  we  could  pull  him  through  yet.  Otherwise —  '  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  almost  helplessly. 

The  next  night  toward  nine  o'clock  Lloyd  took  the  doctor's 
place  at  their  patient's  bedside,  and  Pitts,  without  taking  off  his 
clothes,  stretched  himself  out  upon  the  sofa  in  one  of  the  rooms  on 
the  lower  floor  of  the  house,  with  the  understanding  that  the  nurse 
was  to  call  him  in  case  of  any  change. 

But  as  the  doctor  was  groping  his  way  down  the  darkened 
stairway  he  stumbled  against  Adler  and  Kamiska.  Adler  was  sit 
ting  on  one  of  the  steps,  and  the  dog  was  on  her  haunches  close  at 
his  side;  the  two  were  huddled  together  there  in  the  dark,  broad 
awake,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  waiting,  watching,  and  listening  for 
the  faint  sounds  that  came  at  long  intervals  from  the  direction  of 
the  room  where  Bennett  lay. 

As  the  physician  passed  him  Adler  stood  up  and  saluted. 


A  Man's  Woman 


415 


"Is  he  doing  any  better  now,  sir?"  he  whispered. 

"Nothing  new,"  returned  the  other  brusquely.  "He  may  get 
well  in  three  weeks'  time  or  he  may  die  before  midnight;  so 
there  you  are.  You  know  as  much  about  it  as  I  do.  Damn 
that  dog!" 

He  trod  upon  Kamiska,  who  forbore  heroically  to  yelp,  and 
went  on  his  way.  Adler  resumed  his  place  on  the  stairs,  sitting 
down  gingerly,  so  that  the  boards  should  not  creak  under  his 
weight.  He  took  Kamiska's  head  between  his  hands  and  rocked 
himself  gently  to  and  fro. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do,  little  dog?"  he  whispered.  "What 
are  we  going  to  do  if — if  our  captain  should — if  he  shouldn't — "  he 
had  no  words  to  finish.  Kamiska  took  her  place  again  by  his  side, 
and  the  two  resumed  their  vigil. 

Meanwhile,  not  fifty  feet  away,  a  low  voice,  monotonous  and 
rapid,  was  keeping  up  a  continuous,  murmuring  flow  of  words. 

"That's  well,  your  number  two  sledge.  All  hands  on  the  Mc- 
Clintock  now.  You've  got  to  do  it,  men.  Forward,  get  forward, 
get  forward ;  get  on  to  the  south,  always  to  the  south — south,  south, 
south!  .  .  .  There,  there's  the  ice  again.  That's  the  biggest 
ridge  yet.  At  it  now!  Smash  through;  I'll  break  you  yet,  believe 
me,  I  will !  There,  we  broke  it !  I  knew  you  could,  men.  I'll  pull 
you  through.  Now,  then,  h'up  your  other  sledge.  Forward! 
There  will  be  double  rations  to-night  all  round — no — half-rations, 
quarter-rations  .  .  .  No,  three-fifths  of  an  ounce  of  dog-meat 
and  a  spoonful  of  alcohol — that's  all;  that's  all,  men.  Pretty  cold 
night,  this — minus  thirty-eight.  Only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  covered 
to-day.  Everybody  suffering  in  their  feet,  and  so  weak — and  starv 
ing — and  freezing."  All  at  once  the  voice  became  a  wail.  "My 
God!  is  it  never  going  to  end?  .  .  .  Sh — h,  steady,  what  was 
that?  Who  whimpered?  Was  that  Ward  Bennett?  No  whim 
pering,  whatever  comes.  Stick  it  out  like  men,  anyway.  Fight  it 
out  till  we  drop,  but  no  whimpering.  .  .  .  Who  said  there 
were  steam  whalers  off  the  floe?  That's  a  lie.  Forward,  forward, 
get  forward  to  the  south — no,  not  the  south;  to  the  north,  to  the 
north!  We'll  reach  it,  we'll  succeed;  we're  most  there,  men;  come 
on,  come  on!  I  tell  you  this  time  we'll  reach  it;  one  more  effort, 
menl  We're  most  there!  What's  the  latitude?  Eighty-five-twen 
ty — eighty-six."  The  voice  began  to  grow  louder :  "Come  on,  men ; 
i  we're  most  there!  Eighty-seven — eighty-eight — eighty-nine-twen- 
1  ty-five!"  He  rose  to  a  sitting  position.  "Eighty-nine-thirty— 


4I6  A  Man's  Woman 

eighty-nine-forty-five."  Suddenly  the  voice  rose  to  a  shout. 
''Ninety  degrees!  By  God,  it's  the  Pole!" 

The  voice  died  away  to  indistinct  mutterings. 

Lloyd  was  at  the  bedside  by  now,  and  quietly  pressed  Bennett 
down  upon  his  back.  But  as  she  did  so  a  thrill  of  infinite  pity  and 
compassion  quivered  through  her.  She  had  forced  him  down  so 
easily.  He  was  so  pitifully  weak.  Woman  though  she  was,  she 
could,  with  one  small  hand  upon  his  breast,  control  this  man  who  at 
one  time  had  been  of  such  colossal  strength — such  vast  physical  force. 

Suddenly  Bennett  began  again.  "Where's  Ferriss?  Where's 
Richard  Ferriss?  Where's  the  chief  engineer  of  the  Freja  Arctic 
Exploring  Expedition  ?" 

He  fell  silent  again,  and  but  for  the  twitching,  dancing  hands, 
lay  quiet.  Then  he  cried: 

"Attention  to  the  roll-call !" 

Rapidly  and  in  a  low  voice  he  began  calling  off  the  muster  of 
the  "Freja's"  men  and  officers,  giving  the  answers  himself. 

"Adler — here;  Blair — here;  Dahl — here;  Fishbaugh — here; 
Hawes — here;  McPherson — here;  Muck  Tu — here;  Woodward — 
here;  Captain  Ward  Bennett — here;  Dr.  Sheridan  Dennison — here; 
Chief  Engineer  Richard  Ferriss — "  No  answer.  Bennett  waited  for 
a  moment,  then  repeated  the  name,  "Chief  Engineer  Richard  Fer 
riss — "  Again  he  was  silent;  but  after  a  few  seconds  he  called 
aloud  in  agony  of  anxiety,  "Chief  Engineer  Richard  Ferriss,  answer 
to  the  roll-call !" 

Then  once  more  he  began ;  his  disordered  wits  calling  to  mind 
a  different  order  of  things : 

"Adler — here;  Blair — died  from  exhaustion  at  Point  Kane; 
Dahl — here;  Fishbaugh — starved  to  death  on  the  march  to  Kolyu- 
chin  Bay;  Hawes — died  of  arctic  fever  at  Cape  Kammeni;  Mc 
Pherson — unable  to  keep  up,  and  abandoned  at  ninth  camp ;  Muck 
Tu — here;  Woodward—died  from  starvation  at  twelfth  camp;  Dr. 
Sheridan  Dennison — frozen  to  death  at  Kolyuchin  Bay;  Chief  En 
gineer  Richard  Ferriss — died  by  the  act  of  his  best  friend,  Captain 
Ward  Bennett!"  Again  and  again  Bennett  repeated  this  phrase, 
calling:  "Richard  Ferriss!  Richard  Ferriss!"  and  immediately 
adding  in  a  broken  voice :  "Died  by.  the  act  of  his  best  friend,  Cap 
tain  Ward  Bennett."  Or  at  times  it  was  only  the  absence  of  Ferriss 
that  seemed  to  torture  him.  He  would  call  the  roll,  answering 
"here"  to  each  name  until  he  reached  Ferriss ;  then  he  would  not 
respond,  but  instead  would  cry  aloud  over  and  over  again,  in  ac- 


A  Man's  Woman  417 

cents  of  the  bitterest  grief,  ''Richard  Ferriss,  answer  to  the  roll- 
call  ;  Richard  Ferriss,  answer  to  the  roll-call — "  Then  suddenly, 
with  a  feeble,  quavering  cry,  "For  God's  sake,  Dick,  answer  to 
the  roll-call !" 

The  hours  passed.  Ten  o'clock  struck,  then  eleven.  At  mid 
night  Lloyd  took  the  temperature  (which  had  decreased  consider 
ably)  and  the  pulse,  and  refilled  the  ice-pack  about  the  head.  Ben 
nett  was  still  muttering  in  the  throes  of  delirium,  still  calling  for 
Ferriss,  imploring  him  to  answer  to  the  roll-call ;  or  repeating  the 
words :  "Dick  Ferriss,  chief  engineer — died  at  the  hands  of  his  best 
friend,  Ward  Bennett,"  in  tones  so  pitiful,  so  heartbroken  that 
more  than  once  Lloyd  felt  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"Richard  Ferriss,  Richard  Ferriss,  answer  to  the  roll-call ; 
Dick,  old  man,  won't  you  answer,  won't  you  answer,  old  chap,  when 
I  call  you?  Won't  you  come  back  and  say  'It's  all  right?'  Ferriss, 
Ferriss,  answer  to  my  roll-call.  .  .  .  Died  at  the  hands  of  his 
best  friend.  ...  At  Kolyuchin  Bay.  .  .  .  Killed,  and  I 
did  it.  ...  Forward,  men;  you've  got  to  do  it;  snowing  to 
day  and  all  the  ice  in  motion.  .  .  .  H'up  y'r  other  sledge.  Come 
on  with  y'r  number  four ;  more  pressure-ridges,  I'll  break  you  yet ! 
Come  on  with  y'r  number  four.  .  .  .  Lloyd  Searight,  what 
are  you  doing  in  this  room?" 

On  the  instant  the  voice  had  changed  from  confused  mutterings 
to  distinct,  clear-cut  words.  The  transition  was  so  sudden  that 
Lloyd,  at  the  moment  busy  at  her  nurse's  bag,  her  back  to  the  bed, 
wheeled  sharply  about  to  find  Bennett  sitting  bolt  upright,  looking 
straight  at  her  with  intelligent,  wide-open  eyes.  Lloyd's  heart  for 
an  instant  stood  still,  almost  in  terror.  This  sudden  leap  back  from 
the  darkness  of  delirium  into  the  daylight  of  consciousness  was 
almost  like  a  rising  from  the  dead,  ghostlike,  appalling.  She  caught 
her  breath,  trembling  in  spite  of  her  best  efforts,  and  for  an  instant 
leaned  a  hand  upon  the  table  behind  her. 

But  on  Bennett's  face,  ghastly,  ravaged  by  disease,  with  its  vast, 
protruding  jaw,  its  narrow,  contracted  forehead  and  unkempt  growth 
of  beard,  the  dawning  of  intelligence  and  surprise  swiftly  gave 
place  to  an  expression  of  terrible  anxiety  and  apprehension. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Lloyd?"  he  cried. 

"Hush !"  she  answered  quickly,  as  she  came  forward ;  "above  all 
things,  you  must  not  sit  up ;  lie  down  again  and  don't  talk.  You  are 
very  sick." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  answered  feebly.     "I  know  what  it  is. 


A  Man's  Woman 

But  you  must  leave  here.  It's  a  terrible  risk  every  moment  you  stay 
in  this  room.  I  want  you  to  go.  You  understand — at  once !  Call 
the  doctor.  Don't  come  near  the  bed,"  he  went  on  excitedly,  strug 
gling  to  keep  himself  from  sinking  back  upon  the  pillows.  His  breath 
was  coming  quick;  his  eyes  were  flashing.  All  the  poor,  shattered 
senses  were  aroused  and  quivering  with  excitement  and  dread. 

"It  will  kill  you  to  stay  here,"  he  continued,  almost  breathless. 
"'Out  of  this  room!"  he  commanded.  "Out  of  this  house!  It  is 
mine  now;  I'm  the  master  here — do  you  understand?  Don't!"  he 
exclaimed  as  Lloyd  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  to  force  him 
to  lie  down  again. 

"Don't  touch  me !    Stand  away  from  me !" 

He  tried  to  draw  back  from  her  in  the  bed.  Then  suddenly  he 
made  a  great  effort  to  rise,  resisting  her  efforts. 

"I  shall  put  you  out,  then,"  he  declared,  struggling  against 
Lloyd's  clasp  upon  his  shoulders,  catching  at  her  wrists.  His  ex 
citement  was  so  intense,  his  fervor  so  great  that  it  could  almost  be 
said  he  touched  the  edge  of  his  delirium  again. 

"Do  you  hear,  do  you  hear?    Out  of  this  room!" 

"No,"  said  Lloyd  calmly ;  "you  must  be  quiet ;  you  must  try  to  go 
to  sleep.  This  time  you  can  not  make  me  leave." 

He  caught  her  by  one  arm,  and,  bracing  himself  with  the  other 
against  the  headboard  of  the  bed,  thrust  her  back  from  him  with  all 
his  might. 

"Keep  away  from  me,  I  tell  you;  keep  back!  You  shall  do  as 
I  say!  I  have  always  carried  my  point,  and  I  shall  not  fail  now. 
Believe  me,  I  shall  not.  You — you — "  he  panted  as  he  struggled 
with  her,  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  humiliated  beyond  words  that 
she  should  know  it.  "I — you  shall — you  will  compel  me  to  use 
force.  Don't  let  it  come  to  that." 

Calmly  Lloyd  took  both  his  wrists  in  the  strong,  quiet  clasp  of 
one  palm,  and  while  she  supported  his  shoulders  with  her  other 
arm,  laid  him  down  among  the  pillows  again  as  though  he  had 
been  a  child. 

"I'm — I'm  a  bit  weak  and  trembly  just  now,"  he  admitted,  pant 
ing  with  his  exertion;  "but,  Lloyd,  listen.  I  know  how  you  must 
dislike  me  now,  but  will  you  please,  go — go,  go  at  once!" 

"No." 

What  a  strange  spinning  of  the  wheel  of  fate  was  here !  In  so 
short  a  time  had  their  mutual  positions  been  reversed.  Now  it  was 
she  who  was  strong  and  he  who  was  weak.  It  was  she  who  con- 


A  Man's  Woman  419 

quered  and  he  who  was  subdued.  It  was  she  who  triumphed  and 
he  who  was  humiliated.  It  was  he  who  implored  and  she  who 
denied.  It  was  her  will  and  no  longer  his  that  must  issue  victorious 
from  the  struggle. 

And  how  complete  now  was  Bennett's  defeat!  The  very  con 
tingency  he  had  fought  so  desperately  to  avert  and  for  which  he 
had  sacrificed  Ferriss — Lloyd's  care  of  so  perilous  a  disease — be 
hold!  the  mysterious  turn  of  the  wheel  had  brought  it  about,  and 
now  he  was  powerless  to  resist. 

"Oh !"  he  cried,  "have  I  not  enough  upon  my  mind  already — 
Ferriss  and  his  death?  Are  you  going  to  make  me  imperil  your 
life,  too,  and  after  I  have  tried  so  hard?  You  must  not  stay  here." 

"I  shall  stay,"  she  answered. 

"I  order  you  to  go.  This  is  my  house.  Send  the  doctor  here. 
Where's  Adler?"  Suddenly  he  fainted. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  at  a  time 
when  Bennett  was  sleeping  quietly  under  the  influence  of  opiates, 
Lloyd  found  herself  sitting  at  the  window  in  front  of  the  small 
table  there,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  thoughtful,  absorbed, 
and  watching  with  but  half-seeing  eyes  the  dawn  growing  pink  over 
the  tops  of  the  apple-trees  in  the  orchard  near  by. 

The  window  was  open  just  wide  enough  for  the  proper  ven 
tilation  of  the  room.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  thus  without  moving, 
only  from  time  to  time  smoothing  back  the  heavy,  bronze-red  hair 
from  her  temples  and  ears.  By  degrees  the  thinking  faculties  of 
her  brain,  as  it  were,  a  myriad  of  delicate  interlacing  wheels,  slowly 
decreased  in  the  rapidity  and  intensity  of  their  functions.  She 
began  to  feel  instead  of  to  think.  As  the  activity  of  her  mind  lapsed 
to  a  certain  pleasant  numbness,  a  vague,  formless,  nameless  emotion 
seemed  to  be  welling  to  the  surface.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of 
the  brain.  What  then?  Was  it  the  heart?  She  gave  no  name  to 
this  new  emotion;  it  was  too  confused  as  yet,  too  undefinable.  A 
certain  great  sweetness  seemed  to  be  coming  upon  her,  but  she  could 
not  say  whether  she  was  infinitely  sad  or  supremely  happy ;  a  smile 
was  on  her  lips,  and  yet  the  tears  began  to  brim  in  her  dull-blue  eyes. 

She  felt  as  if  some  long,  fierce  struggle,  or  series  of  struggles, 
were  at  last  accomplished ;  as  if  for  a  long  period  of  time  she  had 
been  involved  in  the  maze  and  tortuous  passages  of  some  gloomy 
cavern,  but  at  length,  thence  issuing,  had  again  beheld  the  stars. 
A  great  tenderness,  a  certain  tremulous  joy  in  all  things  that  were 
true  and  good  and  right,  grew  big  and  strong  within  her;  the  de- 


20  A  Man's  Woman 

light  in  living  returned  to  her.  The  dawn  was  brightening  and 
flushing  over  all  the  world,  and  color,  light,  and  warmth  were 
coming  back  into  her  life.  The  night  had  been  still  and  mild,  but 
now  the  first  breath  of  the  morning  breeze  stirred  in  the  trees,  in  the 
grass,  in  the  flowers,  and  the  thick,  dew-drenched  bushes  along  the 
roadside,  and  a  delicious  aroma  of  fields  and  woods  and  gardens 
came  to  her.  The  sweetness  of  life  and  the  sweetness  of  those  things 
better  than  life  and  more  enduring,  the  things  that  do  not  fail,  nor 
cease,  nor  vanish  away,  suddenly  entered  into  that  room  and  de 
scended  upon  her  almost  in  the  sense  of  a  benediction,  a  visitation, 
something  mystic  and  miraculous.  It  was  a  moment  to  hope  all 
things,  to  believe  all  things,  to  endure  all  things. 

She  caught  her  breath,  listening — for  what  she  did  not  know. 
Once  again,  just  as  it  had  been  in  that  other  dawn,  in  that  other 
room  where  the  Enemy  had  been  conquered,  the  sense  of  some  great 
happiness  was  in  the  air,  was  coming  to  her  swiftly.  But  now  the 
greater  Enemy  had  been  outfought,  the  morning  of  a  greater  day 
was  breaking  and  spreading,  and  the  greatest  happiness  in  the  world 
was  preparing  for  her.  How  it  had  happened  she  did  not  know. 
Now  was  not  the  moment  to  think,  to  reason,  to  reflect.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  rushing  of  wings  was  all  about  her,  as  though  a  light 
brighter  than  the  day  was  just  about  to  break  upon  her  sight,  as 
though  a  music  divinely  beautiful  was  just  about  to  burst  upon  her 
ear.  But  the  light  was  not  for  her  eye ;  the  music  was  not  for  her 
ear.  The  radiance  and  the  harmony  came  from  herself,  from  within 
her.  The  intellect  was  numb.  Only  the  heart  was  alive  on  this 
wonderful  midsummer's  morning,  and  it  was  in  her  heart  that  the 
radiance  shone  and  the  harmony  vibrated.  Back  in  his  place  once 
more,  high  on  his  throne,  the  love  that  she  believed  had  forever 
departed  from  her  sat  exalted  and  triumphant,  singing  to  the  ca 
dence  of  that  unheard  music,  shining  and  magnificent  in  the  glory  of 
that  new-dawned  light. 

Would  Bennett  live?  Suddenly  that  question  leaped  up  in  her 
mind  and  stood  in  the  eye  of  her  imagination,  terrible,  menacing — 
a  hideous,  grim  spectre,  before  which  Lloyd  quailed  with  failing 
heart  and  breath.  The  light,  the  almost  divine  radiance  that  had 
burst  upon  her,  nevertheless  threw  a  dreadful  shadow  before  it. 
Beneath  the  music  she  heard  the  growl  of  the  thunder.  Her  new 
found  happiness  was  not  without  its  accompanying  dismay.  Love 
had  not  returned  to  her  heart  alone.  With  it  had  returned  the  old 
Enemy  she  had  once  believed  had  left  her  forever.  Now  it  had  come 


A   Man's  Woman  421 

»ack.  As  before,  it  lurked  and  leered  at  her  from  dark  corners.  It 
rept  to  her  side,  to  her  back,  ready  to  leap,  ready  to  strike,  to 
lutch  at  her  throat  with  cold  fingers  and  bear  her  to  the  earth, 
ending  her  heart  with  a  grief  she  told  herself  she  could  not  endure 
.nd  live.  She  loved  him  now  with  all  her  mind  and  might;  how 
ould  it  ever  have  been  otherwise?  He  belonged  to  her — and  she? 
Nhy,  she  only  lived  with  his  life ;  she  seemed  so  bound  to  him  as 
o  be  part  of  his  very  self.  Literally,  she  could  not  understand  how 
t  would  be  possible  for  her  to  live  if  .he  should  die.  It  seemed  to 
ler  that  with  his  death  some  mysterious  element  of  her  life,  some- 
hing  vital  and  fundamental,  for  which  there  was  no  name,  would 
lisintegrate  upon  the  instant  and  leave  her  without  the  strength 
tecessary  for  further  existence.  This  would,  however,  be  a 
elief.  The  prospect  of  the  years  after  his  death,  the  fearful  loneli- 
less  of  life  without  him,  was  a  horror  before  which  she  veritably 
>elieved  her  reason  itself  must  collapse. 

"Lloyd." 

Bennett  was  awake  again  and  watching  her  with  feverish  anxiety 
rom  where  he  lay  among  the  pillows.  "Lloyd,"  he  repeated,  the 
roice  once  so  deep  and  powerful  quavering  pitifully.  "I  was  wrong. 
'.  don't  want  you  to  go.  Don't  leave  me." 

In  an  instant  Lloyd  was  at  his  side,  kneeling  by  the  bed.  She 
:aught  one  of  the  great,  gnarled  hands,  seamed  and  corded  and 
mrning  with  the  fever.  "Never,  never,  dearest;  never  so  long  as 
:  shall  live." 

IX 

WHEN  Adler  heard  Bennett's  uncertain  steps  upon  the  stairs 
ind  the  sound  of  Lloyd's  voice  speaking  to  him  and  urging  that 
:here  was  no  hurry,  and  that  he  was  to  take  but  one  step  at  a  time, 
ic  wheeled  swiftly  about  from  the  windows  of  the  glass-room,  where 
le  had  been  watching  the  October  breeze  stirring  the  crimson 
md  yellow  leaves  in  the  orchard,  and  drew  back  his  master's  chair 
irom  the  breakfast  table  and  stood  behind  it  expectantly,  his  eyes 
matching  the  door. 

Lloyd  held  back  the  door,  and  Bennett  came  in,  leaning  heavily 
)n  Dr.  Pitts's  shoulder.  Adler  stiffened  upon  the  instant  as  if  in  an- 
>wer  to  some  unheard  bugle-call,  and  when  Bennett  had  taken  his 
seat,  pushed  his  chair  gently  to  the  table  and  unfolded  his  napkin 
with  a  flourish  as  though  giving  a  banner  to  the  wind.  Pitts  almost 


A  Man's  Woman 

immediately  left  the  room,  but  Lloyd  remained  supervising  Ben 
nett's  breakfast,  pouring  his  milk,  buttering  his  toast,  and  opening 
his  eggs. 

"Coffee?"  suddenly  inquired  Bennett.     Lloyd  shook  her  head. 

"Not  for  another  week." 

Bennett  looked  with  grim  disfavor  upon  the  glass  of  milk  that 
Lloyd  had  placed  at  his  elbow. 

"Such  slop!"  he  growled.  "Why  not  a  little  sugar  and  warm 
water,  and  be  done  with  it?  Lloyd,  I  can't  drink  this  stuff  any 
more.  Why,  it's  warm  yet!"  he  exclaimed  aggrievedly  and  with 
deep  disgust,  abruptly  setting  down  the  glass. 

"Why,  of  course  it  is,"  she  answered ;  "we  brought  the  cow  here 
especially  for  you,  and  the  boy  has  just  done  milking  her — and  it's 
not  slop." 

"Slop!  slop!"  declared  Bennett.  He  picked  up  the  glass  again 
and  looked  at  her  over  the  rim. 

"I'll  drink  this  stuff  this  one  more  time  to  please  you,"  he  said. 
"But  I  promise  you  this  will  be  the  last  time.  You  needn't  ask  me 
again.  I  have  drunk  enough  milk  the  past  three  weeks  to  support 
a  foundling  hospital  for  a  year." 

Invariably,  since  the  period  of  his  convalescence  began,  Bennett 
made  this  scene  over  his  hourly  glass  of  milk,  and  invariably  it  ended 
by  his  gulping  it  down  at  nearly  a  single  swallow. 

Adler  brought  in  the  mail  and  the  morning  paper.  Three  letters 
had  come  for  Lloyd,  and  for  Bennett  a  small  volume  on  "Recent 
Arctic  Research  and  Exploration,"  sent  by  his  publisher  with  a 
note  to  the  effect  that,  as  the  latest  authority  on  the  subject,  Ben 
nett  was  sure  to  find  it  of  great  interest.  In  an  appendix,  inserted 
after  the  body  of  the  book  had  been  made  up,  the  "Freja"  expe 
dition  and  his  own  work  were  briefly  described.  Lloyd  put  her 
letters  aside,  and,  unfolding  the  paper,  said,  "I'll  read  it  while  you 
eat  your  breakfast.  Have  you  everything  you  want?  Did  you 
drink  your  milk — all  of  it?"  But  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she 
noted  that  Adler  was  chuckling  behind  the  tray  that  he  held  to  his 
face,  and  with  growing  suspicion  she  leaned  forward  and  peered 
about  among  the  breakfast  things.  Bennett  had  hidden  his  glass 
behind  the  toast-rack. 

"And  it's  only  two-thirds  empty,"  she  declared.  "Ward,  why 
will  you  be  such  a  boy  ?" 

"Oh,  well,"  he  grumbled,  and  without  more  ado  drank  off  the 
balance. 


A  Man's  Woman  423 

"Now,  I'll  read  to  you  if  you  have  everything  you  want.  Adler,  I 
think  you  can  open  one  of  those  windows ;  it's  so  warm  out  of  doors." 

While  he  ate  his  breakfast  of  toast,  milk,  and  eggs  Lloyd  skimmed 
through  the  paper,  reading  aloud  everything  she  thought  would  be 
of  interest  to  him.  Then,  after  a  moment,  her  eye  was  caught  and 
held  by  a  half-column  article  expanded  from  an  Associated  Press 
despatch. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "listen  to  this!"  and  continued:  "'Word  has 
been  received  at  this  place  of  the  safe  arrival  of  the  Arctic  steamship 
"Curlew"  at  Tasiusak,  on  the  Greenland  coast,  bearing  eighteen 
members  of  the  Duane-Parsons  expedition.  Captain  Duane  reports 
all  well  and  an  uneventful  voyage.  It  is  his  intention  to  pass  the 
winter  at  Tasiusak,  collecting  dogs  and  also  Eskimo  sledges, 
which  he  believes  superior  to  European  manufacture  for  work  in 
rubble-ice,  and  to  push  on  with  the  "Curlew"  in  the  spring  as  soon 
as  Smith  Sound  shall  be  navigable.  This  may  be  later  than  Cap 
tain  Duane  supposes,  as  the  whalers  who  have  been  working  in  the 
sound  during  the  past  months  bring  back  news  of  an  unusually  early 
winter  and  extraordinary  quantities  of  pack-ice  both  in  the  sound 
itself  and  in  Kane  Basin.  This  means  a  proportionately  late  open 
season  next  year,  and  the  "Curlew's"  departure  from  Tasiusak  may 
be  considerably  later  than  anticipated.  It  is  considered  by  the  best 
Arctic  experts  an  unfortunate  circumstance  that  Captain  Duane 
elected  to  winter  south  of  Cape  Sabine,  as  the  condition  of  the  ice  in 
Smith  Sound  can  never  be  relied  upon  nor  foretold.  Should  the 
entrance  to  the  sound  still  be  incumbered  with  ice  as  late  as  July, 
which  is  by  no  means  impossible,  Captain  Duane  will  be  obliged  to 
spend  another  winter  at  Tasiusak  or  Upernvick,  consuming  alike 
his  store  of  provisions  and  the  patience  of  his  men/  ': 

There  was  a  silence  when  Lloyd  finished  reading.  Bennett 
chipped  at  the  end  of  his  second  egg. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  length. 

"Well,"  returned  Bennett,  "what's  all  that  to  me?" 

"It's  your  work,"  she  answered  almost  vehemently. 

"No,  indeed.     It's  Duane's  work." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Let  him  try  now." 

"And  you?"  exclaimed  Lloyd,  looking  intently  at  him. 

"My  dear  girl,  I  had  my  chance  and  failed.  Now—"  he  raised 
a  shoulder  indifferently — "now,  I  don't  care  much  about  it.  I've 
lost  interest." 


A  Man's  Woman 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  she  cried  energetically ;  "yon  of  all  men." 
Behind  Bennett's  chair  she  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Adler,  who 
had  tucked  his  tray  under  his  arm  and  was  silently  applauding  in 
elaborate  pantomime.  She  saw  his  lips  form  the  words  "That's  it; 
that's  right.  Go  right  ahead." 

"Besides,  I  have  my  book  to  do,  and,  besides  that,  I'm  an  invalid 
— an  invalid  who  drinks  slop." 

"And  you  intend  to  give  it  all  up — your  career?" 

"Well— if  I  should,  what  then?"  Suddenly  he  turned  to  her 
abruptly.  "I  should  not  think  you  would  want  me  to  go  again.  Do 
you  urge  me  to  go?" 

Lloyd  made  a  sudden  little  gasp,  and  her  hand  involuntarily 
closed  upon  his  as  it  rested  near  her  on  the  table. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  no,  I  don't!  You  are  right.  It's 
not  your  work  now." 

"Well,  then,"  muttered  Bennett  as  though  the  question  were 
forever  settled. 

Lloyd  turned  to  her  mail,  and  one  after  another  slit  the  en 
velopes,  woman  fashion,  with  a  shell  hairpin.  But  while  she  was 
glancing  over  the  contents  of  her  letters  Bennett  began  to  stir 
uneasily  in  his  place.  From  time  to  time  he  stopped  eating  and 
shot  a  glance  at  Lloyd  from  under  his  frown,  noting  the  crisp,  white 
texture  of  her  gown  and  waist,  the  white  scarf  with  its  high,  tight 
bands  about  the  neck,  the  tiny,  golden  buttons  in  her  cuffs,  the 
sombre,  ruddy  glow  of  her  cheeks,  her  dull-blue  eyes,  and  the  piles 
and  coils  of  her  bronze-red  hair.  Then,  abruptly,  he  said : 

"Adler,  you  can  go." 

Adler  saluted  and  withdrew. 

"Whom  are  your  letters  from?"  Bennett  demanded  by  way  of  a 
beginning. 

Lloyd  replaced  the  hairpin  in  her  hair,  answering: 

"From  Dr.  Street,  from  Louise  Douglass,  and  from — Mr. 
Campbell." 

"Hum!  well,  what  do  they  say?  Dr.  Street  and — Louise 
Douglass?" 

"Dr.  Street  asks  me  to  take  a  very  important  surgical  case  as 
soon  as  I  get  through  here,  'one  of  the  most  important  and  delicate, 
as  well  as  one  of  the  most  interesting,  operations  in  his  professional 
experience/  Those  are  his  words.  Louise  writes  four  pages,  but 
she  says  nothing;  just  chatters." 

"And  Campbell?"     Bennett  indicated  with  his  chin  the  third 


A   Man's  Woman  425 

rather  voluminous  letter  at  Lloyd's  elbow.  "He  seems  to  have 
written  rather  more  than  four  pages.  What  does  he  say?  Does  he 
'chatter,'  too?" 

Lloyd  smoothed  back  her  hair  from  one  temple. 

"H'm — no.  He  says — something.  But  never  mind  what  he  says. 
Ward,  I  must  be  going  back  to  the  city.  You  don't  need  a  nurse 
any  more." 

"What's  that?"  Bennett's  frown  gathered  on  the  instant,  and 
with  a  sharp  movement  of  the  head  that  was  habitual  to  him  he 
brought  his  one  good  eye  to  bear  upon  her. 

Lloyd  repeated  her  statement,  answering  his  remonstrance  and 
expostulation  with : 

"You  are  almost  perfectly  well,  and  it  would  not  be  at  all — dis 
creet  for  me  to  stay  here  an  hour  longer  than  absolutely  necessary. 
I  shall  go  back  to-morrow  or  next  day." 

"But  I  tell  you,  I  am  still  very  sick.  I'm  a  poor,  miserable, 
shattered  wreck." 

He  made  a  great  show  of  coughing  in  hollow,  lamentable  tones. 

"Listen  to  that,  and  last  night  I  had  a  high  fever,  and  this  morn 
ing  I  had  a  queer  sort  of  pain  about  here — "  he  vaguely  indicated 
the  region  of  his  chest.  "I  think  I  am  about  to  have  a  relapse." 

"Nonsense!    You  can't  frighten  me  at  all." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  answered  easily,  "I  shall  go  with  you — that  is 
all.  I  suppose  you  want  to  see  me  venture  out  in  such  raw,  bleak 
weather  as  this — with  my  weak  lungs." 

"Your  weak  lungs?    How  long  since?" 

"Well,  I've  sometimes  thought  my  lungs  were  not  very  strong." 

"Why,  dear  me,  you  poor  thing ;  I  suppose  the  climate  at  Kolyu- 
chin  Bay  was  a  trifle  too  bracing — " 

"What  does  Campbell  say?" 

" — and  the  diet  too  rich  for  your  blood — " 

"What  does  Campbell  say?" 

" — and  perhaps  you  did  overexert — " 

"Lloyd  Searight,  what  does  Mr.  Campbell  say  in  that — " 

"He  asks  me  to  marry  him." 

"To  mum — mar — marry  him?     Well,  damn  his  impudence!" 

"Mr.  Campbell  is  an  eminently  respectable,  worthy  gentleman." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  care.  Go!  Go,  marry  Mr.  Campbell.  Be 
happy.  I  forgive  you  both.  Go,  leave  me  to  die  alone." 

"Sir,  I  will  go.  Forget  that  you  ever  knew  an  unhappy  worn — 
female,  whose  only  fault  was  that  she  loved  you." 


426  A  Man's  Woman 

"Go!  and  sometimes  think  of  me  far  away  on  the  billow  and 
drop  a  silent  tear — I  say,  how  are  you  going  to  answer  Campbell's 
letter?" 

"Just  one  word — 'Come.' '' 

"Lloyd,  be  serious.     This  is  no  joke." 

"Joke!"  she  repeated  hollowly.  "It  is,  indeed,  a  sorry  joke. 
Ah!  had  I  but  loved  with  a  girlish  love,  it  would  have  been  better 
for  me." 

Then  suddenly  she  caught  him  about  the  neck  with  both  her 
arms,  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek  and  on  the  lips,  a  little  quiver 
running  through  her  to  her  finger-tips,  her  mood  changing  abruptly 
to  a  deep,  sweet  earnestness. 

"Oh,  Ward,  Ward !"  she  cried,  "all  our  unhappiness  and  all  our 
sorrow  and  trials  and  anxiety  and  cruel  suspense  are  over  now,  and 
now  we  really  have  each  other  and  love  each  other,  dear,  and  all 
the  years  to  come  are  only  going  to  bring  happiness  to  us,  and  draw 
us  closer  and  nearer  to  each  other." 

"But  here's  a  point,  Lloyd,"  said  Bennett  after  a  few  moments 
and  when  they  had  returned  to  coherent  speech;  "how  about  your 
work?  You  talk  about  my  career;  what  about  yours?  We  are  to 
be  married,  but  I  know  just  how  you  have  loved  your  work.  It 
will  be  a  hard  wrench  for  you  if  you  give  that  up.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  should  ask  it  of  you.  This  letter  of  Street's,  now.  I  know 
just  how  eager  you  must  be  to  take  charge  of  such  operations — 
such  important  cases  as  he  mentions.  It  would  be  very  selfish  of 
me  to  ask  you  to  give  up  your  work.  It's  your  life-work,  your 
profession,  your  career." 

Lloyd  took  up  Dr.  Street's  letter,  and,  holding  it  delicately  at 
arm's  length,  tore  it  in  two  and  let  the  pieces  flutter  to  the  floor. 

"That,  for  my  life-work,"  said  Lloyd  Searight. 

As  she  drew  back  from  him  an  instant  later  Bennett  all  at 
once  and  very  earnestly  demanded : 

"Lloyd,  do  you  love  me?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  Ward?" 

"And  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"You  know  that  I  will." 

"Then," — Bennett  picked  up  the  little  volume  of  "Arctic  Re 
search"  which  he  had  received  that  morning,  and  tossed  it  from  him 
upon  the  floor — "that,  for  my  career,"  he  answered. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent,  looking  gladly  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Then  Bennett  drew  her  to  him  again  and  held  her  close  to 


A  Man's  Woman  427 

him,  and  once  more  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  nestled 
her  head  down  upon  his  shoulder  with  a  little  comfortable  sigh  of 
contentment  and  relief  and  quiet  joy,  for  that  the  long,  fierce  trial 
was  over;  that  there  were  no  more  fights  to  be  fought,  no  more 
grim,  hard  situations  to  face,  no  more  relentless  duties  to  be  done. 
She  had  endured  and  she  had  prevailed ;  now  her  reward  was 
come.  Now  for  the  long,  calm  years  of  happiness. 

Later  in  the  day,  about  an  hour  after  noon,  Bennett  took  his 
daily  nap,  carefully  wrapped  in  shawls  and  stretched  out  in  a 
wicker  steamer-chair  in  the  glass-room.  Lloyd,  in  the  meantime, 
was  busy  in  the  garden  at  the  side  of  the  house,  gathering  flowers 
which  she  intended  to  put  in  a  huge  china  bowl  in  Bennett's  room. 
While  she  was  thus  occupied  Adler,  followed  by  Kamiska,  came  up, 
Adler  pulled  off  his  cap. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Miss,"  he  began,  turning  his  cap  about  between 
his  fingers.  "I  don't  want  to  seem  to  intrude,  and  if  I  do  I  just  guess 
you'd  better  tell  me  so  first  off.  But  what  did  he  say — or  did  he  say 
anything — the  captain,  I  mean — this  morning  about  going  up 
again?  I  heard  you  talking  to  him  at  breakfast.  That's  it,  that's 
the  kind  of  talk  he  needs.  I  can't  talk  that  talk  to  him.  I'm  so 
main  scared  of  him.  I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  the  captain  would  ever 
say  he'd  give  up,  would  ever  say  he  was  beaten.  But,  Miss,  I'm 
thinking  as  there's  something  wrong,  main  wrong  with  the  captain 
these  days  besides  fever.  He's  getting  soft — that's  what  he  is. 
If  you'd  only  know  the  man  that  he  was — before — while  we  was 
up  there  in  the  Ice!  That's  his  work,  that's  what  he's  cut  out  for. 
There  ain't  nobody  can  do  it  but  him,  and  to  see  him  quit,  to  see 
him  chuck  up  his  chance  to  a  third-rate  ice-pilot  like  Duane — a 
coastwise  college  professor  that  don't  know  no  more  about  Ice  than 
— than  you  do — it  regularly  makes  me  sick.  Why,  what  will  be 
come  of  the  captain  now  if  he  quits?  He'll  just  settle  down  to  an 
ordinary  stay-at-home,  write-in-a-book  professor,  and  write  articles 
for  the  papers  and  magazines,  and  by  and  by,  maybe,  he'll  get  down 
to  lecturing!  Just  fancy,  Miss,  him,  the  captain,  lecturing!  And 
while  he  stays  at  home  and  writes,  and — oh,  Lord ! — lectures,  some 
body  else,  without  a  fifth  of  his  ability,  will  do  the  work.  It'll  just 
naturally  break  my  heart,  it  will !"  exclaimed  Adler,  "if  the  captain 
chucks.  I  wouldn't  be  so  main  sorry  that  he  won't  reach  the  Pole 
as  that  he  quit  trying — as  that  a  man  like  the  captain — or  like  what 
I  thought  he  was — gave  up  and  chucked  when  he  could  win." 

"But,   Adler/'   returned   Lloyd,   "the   captain — Mr.   Bennett,   it 


A  Man's  Woman 

seems  to  me,  has  done  his  share.  Think  what  he's  been  through. 
You  can't  have  forgotten  the  march  to  Kolyuchin  Bay?" 

But  Adler  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  the  hand  that  held 
the  cap.  "The  danger  don't  figure ;  what  he'd  have  to  go  through 
with  don't  figure ;  the  chances  of  life  or  death  don't  figure ;  nothing 
in  the  world  don't  figure.  It's  his  work;  God  A'mighty  cut  him  out 
for  that,  and  he's  got  to  do  it.  Ain't  you  got  any  influence  with  him, 
Miss?  Won't  you  talk  good  talk  to  him?  Don't  let  him  chuck; 
don't  let  him  get  soft.  Make  him  be  a  Man  and  not  a  professor." 

When  Adler  had  left  her  Lloyd  sank  into  a  little  seat  at  the 
edge  of  the  garden  walk,  and  let  the  flowers  drop  into  her  lap, 
and  leaned  back  in  her  place,  wide-eyed  and  thoughtful,  review 
ing  in  her  imagination  the  events  of  the  past  few  months.  What 
a  change  that  summer  had  brought  to  both  of  them ;  how  they  had 
been  shaped  anew  in  the  mold  of  circumstance! 

Suddenly  and  without  warning,  they  two,  high-spirited,  strong, 
determined,  had  clashed  together,  the  man's  force  against  the  wo 
man's  strength;  and  the  woman,  inherently  weaker,  had  been 
crushed  and  humbled.  For  a  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
been  broken  beyond  hope;  so  humbled  that  she  could  never  rise 
again;  as  though  a  great  crisis  had  developed  in  her  life,  and  that, 
having  failed  once,  she  must  fail  again,  and  again,  and  again — as 
if  her  whole  subsequent  life  must  be  one  long  failure.  But  a  greater 
crisis  had  followed  hard  upon  the  heels  of  the  first — the  struggle 
with  self,  the  greatest  struggle  of  all.  Against  the  abstract  prin 
ciple  of  evil  the  woman  who  had  failed  in  the  material  conflict  with 
a  masculine,  masterful  will,  had  succeeded,  had  conquered  self, 
had  been  true  when  it  was  easy  to  be  false,  had  dared  the  judgment 
of  her  peers  so  only  that  she  might  not  deceive. 

Her  momentary,  perhaps  fancied,  hatred  of  Bennett,  who  had 
so  cruelly  misunderstood  and  humiliated  her,  had  apparently,  of  its 
own  accord,  departed  from  her  heart.  Then  had  come  the  hour 
when  the  strange  hazard  of  fortune  had  reversed  their  former  posi 
tions,  when  she  could  be  masterful  while  he  was  weak;  when  it 
was  the  man's  turn  to  be  broken,  to  be  prevailed  against.  Her  own 
discomfiture  had  been  offset  by  his.  She  no  longer  need  look  to 
him  as  her  conqueror,  her  master.  And  when  she  had  seen  him  so 
weak,  so  pathetically  unable  to  resist  the  lightest  pressure  of  her 
hand ;  when  it  was  given  her  not  only  to  witness  but  to  relieve  his 
suffering,  the  great  love  for  him  that  could  not  die  had  returned. 
\\ith  the  mastery  of  self  had  come  the  forgetfulness  of  self;  and 


A  Man's  Woman 


429 


her  profession,  her  life-work,  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud,  had 
seemed  to  her  of  small  concern.  Now  she  was  his,  and  his  life 
was  hers.  She  should — so  she  told  herself — be  henceforth  happy 
in  his  happiness,  and  her  only  pride  would  be  the  pride  in  his 
achievements. 

But  now  the  unexpected  had  happened,  and  Bennett  had  given 
up  his  career.  During  the  period  of  Bennett's  convalescence  Lloyd 
had  often  talked  long  and  earnestly  with  him,  and  partly  from  what 
he  had  told  her  and  partly  from  much  that  she  inferred  she  had 
at  last  been  able  to  trace  out  and  follow  the  mental  processes  and 
changes  through 'which  Bennett  had  passed.  He,  too,  had  been 
proved  by  fire ;  he,  too,  had  had  his  ordeal,  his  trial. 

By  nature,  by  training,  and  by  virtue  of  the  life  he  lived  Ben 
nett  had  been  a  man,  harsh,  somewhat  brutal,  inordinately  selfish, 
and  at  ah  times  magnificently  arrogant.  He  had  neither  patience 
nor  toleration  for  natural  human  weakness.  While  selfish,  he  was 
not  self-conscious,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him,  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  see  that  he  was  a  giant  among  men.  His  heart  was  callous ; 
his  whole  nature  and  character  hard  and  flinty  from  the  bufferings 
he  gave  rather  than  received. 

Then  had  come  misfortune.  Ferriss  had  died,  and  Bennett's 
recognition  and  acknowledgment  of  the  fact  that  he,  Ward  Bennett, 
who  never  failed,  who  never  blundered,  had  made  at  last  the  great 
and  terrible  error  of  his  life,  had  shaken  his  character  to  its  very 
foundations.  This  was  only  the  beginning;  the  breach  once  made, 
Humanity  entered  into  the  gloomy,  waste  places  of  his  soul;  re 
morse  crowded  hard  upon  his  wonted  arrogance ;  generosity  and  the 
impulse  to  make  amends  took  the  place  of  selfishness;  kindness 
thrust  out  the  native  brutality;  the  old-time  harshness  and  impe- 
riousness  gave  away  to  a  certain  spirit  of  toleration. 

It  was  the  influence  of  these  new  emotions  that  had  moved  Ben 
nett  to  make  the  statement  to  Adler  that  had  so  astonished  and 
perplexed  his  old-time  subordinate.  He,  Bennett,  too,  like  Lloyd, 
was  at  that  time  endeavoring  to  free  himself  from  a  false  position, 
and  through  the  medium  of  confession  stand  in  his  true  colors  in 
the  eyes  of  his  associates.  Unconsciously  they  were  both  working 
out  their  salvation  along  the  same  lines. 

Then  had  come  Bennett's  resolve  to  give  Ferriss  the  conspicu 
ous  and  prominent  place  in  his  book,  the  account  of  the  expedition. 
The  more  Bennett  dwelt  upon  Ferriss's  heroism,  intelligence,  and 
ability  the  more  his  task  became  a  labor  of  love,  and  the  more  the 


A  Man's  Woman 

idea  of  self  dropped  away  from  his  thought  and  imagination.  Then 

. and  perhaps  this  was  not  the  least  important  factor  in  Bennett's 

transformation — sickness  had  befallen;  the  strong  and  self-reliant 
man  had  been  brought  to  the  weakness  of  a  child,  whom  the  pressure 
of  a  finger  could  control.  He  suddenly  changed  places  with  the 
woman  he  believed  he  had,  at  such  feaful  cost,  broken  and  sub 
dued.  His  physical  strength,  once  so  enormous,  was  as  a  reed  in 
the  woman's  hand ;  his  will,  so  indomitable,  was  as  powerless  as  an 
infant's  before  the  woman's  calm  resolve,  rising  up  there  before 
him  and  overmastering  him  at  a  time  he  believed  it  to  be  forever 
weakened. 

Bennett  had  come  forth  from  the  ordeal  chastened,  softened,  and 
humbled.  But  he  was  shattered,  broken,  brought  to  the  earth  with 
sorrow  and  the  load  of  unavailing  regret.  Ambition  was  numb  and 
lifeless  within  him.  Reaction  from  his  former  attitude  of  aggres 
sion  and  defiance  had  carried  him  far  beyond  the  normal. 

Here  widened  the  difference  between  the  man  and  the  woman. 
Lloyd's  discontinuance  of  her  life-work  had  been  in  the  nature  of 
heroic  subjugation  of  self.  Bennett's  abandonment  of  his  career 
was  hardly  better  than  weakness.  In  the  one  it  had  been  renuncia 
tion  ;  in  the  other  surrender.  In  the  end,  and  after  all  was  over,  it 
was  the  woman  who  remained  the  stronger. 

But  for  her,  the  woman,  was  it  true  that  all  was  over?  Had  the 
last  conflict  been  fought  ?  Was  it  not  rather  to  be  believed  that  life 
was  one  long  conflict  ?  Was  it  not  for  her,  Lloyd,  to  rouse  that  slug 
gard  ambition  ?  Was  not  this  her  career,  after  all,  to  be  his  inspira 
tion,  his  incentive,  to  urge  him  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  great 
work?  Now,  of  the  two,  she  was  the  stronger.  In  these  new  con 
ditions  what  was  her  duty  ?  Adler's  clumsy  phrases  persisted  in  her 
mind.  "That's  his  work,"  Adler  had  said.  "God  A'mighty  cut  him 
out  for  that,  and  he's  got  to  do  it.  Don't  let  him  chuck,  don't  let  him 
get  soft;  make  him  be  a  man  and  not  a  professor." 

Had  she  so  much  influence  over  Bennett?  Could  she  rouse  the 
restless,  daring  spirit  again?  Perhaps;  but  what  would  it  mean 
for  her — for  her,  who  must  be  left  behind  to  wait,  and  wait,  and 
wait — for  three  years,  for  five  years,  for-  ten  years — perhaps  for 
ever?  And  now,  at  this  moment,  when  she  believed  that  at  last  hap 
piness  had  come  to  her;  when  the  duty  had  been  done,  the  grim 
problems  solved;  when  sickness  had  been  overcome;  when  love 
had  come  back,  and  the  calm,  untroubled  days  seemed  lengthening 
out  ahead,  there  came  to  her  recollection  the  hideous  lapse  of  time 


A  Man's  Woman 


431 


that  had  intervened  between  the  departure  of  the  "Freja"  and  the 
expedition's  return ;  what  sleepless  nights,  what  days  of  unspeakable 
'!  suspense,  what  dreadful  alternations  between  hope  and  despair,  what 
silent,  repressed  suffering,  what  haunting,  ever-present  dread  of  a 
thing  she  dared  not  name!  Was  the  Fear  to  come  into  her  life 
again;  the  Enemy  that  lurked  and  leered  and  forbore  to  strike, 
that  hung  upon  her  heels  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  that  sat  down 
with  her  to  her  every  occupation,  that  followed  after  when  she 
stirred  abroad,  that  came  close  to  her  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night, 
creeping,  creeping  to  her  bedside,  looming  over  her  in  the  darkness ; 
the  cold  fingers  reaching  closer  and  closer,  the  awful  face  growing 
ever  more  distinct,  till  the  suspense  of  waiting  for  the  blow  to  fall, 
for  the  fingers  to  grip,  became  more  than  she  could  bear,  and  she 
sprang  from  her  bed  with  a  stifled  sob  of  anguish,  driven  from  her 
rest  with  quivering  lips  and  streaming  eyes  ? 

Abruptly  Lloyd  rose  to  her  feet,  the  flowers  falling  unheeded 
from  her  lap,  her  arms  rigid  at  her  side,  her  hands  shut  tight. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  "I  can  not.  This,  at  last,  is  more  than  I 
can  do." 

Instantly  Adler's  halting  words  went  ringing  through  her  brain : 
"The  danger  don't  figure;  nothing  in  the  world  don't  figure.  It's 
his  work." 

Adler's  words  were  the  words  of  the  world.  She  alone  of  the 
thousands  whose  eyes  were  turned  toward  Bennett  was  blinded. 
She  was  wrong.  She  belonged  to  him,  but  he  did  not  belong  to 
her.  The  world  demanded  him ;  the  world  called  him  from  her  side 
to  do  the  terrible  work  that  God  had  made  him  for.  Was  she,  be 
cause  she  loved  him,  because  of  her  own  single  anguish,  to  stand 
between  him  and  the  clamor  of  the  world,  between  him  and  his 
work,  between  him  and  God? 

A  work  there  was  for  him  to  do.  He  must  play  the  man's  part. 
The  battle  must  be  fought  again.  That  horrible,  grisly  Enemy  far 
up  there  to  the  north,  upon  the  high  curve  of  the  globe,  the  shoulder 
of  the  world,  huge,  remorseless,  terrible  in  its  vast,  Titanic 
strength,  guarding  its  secret  through  all  the  centuries  in  the  inner 
most  of  a  thousand  gleaming  coils,  must  be  defied  again.  The  mon 
ster  that  defended  the  great  prize,  the  object  of  so  many  fruitless 
quests,  must  be  once  more  attacked. 

His  was  the  work,  for  him  the  shock  of  battle,  the  rigor  of  the 
fight,  the  fierce  assault,  the  ceaseless  onset,  the  unfailing  and  un 
flinching  courage. 


A  Man's  Woman 

Hers  was  the  woman's  part.  Already  she  had  assumed  it ;  stead 
fast  unselfishness,  renunciation,  patience,  the  heroism  greater  than 
all  others,  that  sits  with  folded  hands,  quiet,  unshaken,  and  under 
fearful  stress,  endures,  and  endures,  and  endures.  To  be  the  in 
spiration  of  great  deeds,  high  hopes,  and  firm  resolves,  and  then, 
while  the  fight  was  dared,  to  wait  in  calmness  for  its  issue — that 
was  her  duty ;  that,  the  woman's  part  in  the  world's  great  work. 

Lloyd  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  certain  sweet  and  subtle  ele 
ment  in  her  love  for  Bennett  that  only  of  late  she  had  begun  to 
recognize  and  be  aware  of.  This  was  a  certain  vague  protective, 
almost  maternal,  instinct.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  his  present 
weakness  both  of  body  and  character,  or  perhaps  it  was  an  element 
always  to  be  found  in  the  deep  and  earnest  love  of  any  noble- 
hearted  woman.  She  felt  that  she,  not  as  herself  individually,  but 
as  a  woman,  was  not  only  stronger  than  Bennett,  but  in  a  manner 
older,  more  mature.  She  was  conscious  of  depths  in  her  nature 
far  greater  than  in  his,  and  also  that  she  was  capable  of  attaining 
heights  of  heroism,  devotion,  and  sacrifice  which  he,  for  all  his 
masculine  force,  could  not  only  never  reach,  but  could  not  even 
conceive  of.  It  was  this  consciousness  of  her  larger,  better  nature 
that  made  her  feel  for  Bennett  somewhat  as  a  mother  feels  for  a 
son,  a  sister  for  her  younger  brother.  A  great  tenderness  mingled 
with  her  affection,  a  vast  and  almost  divine  magnanimity,  a  broad, 
womanly  pity  for  his  shortcomings,  his  errors,  his  faults.  It  was 
to  her  he  must  look  for  encouragement.  It  was  for  her  to  bind  up 
and  reshape  the  great  energy  that  had  been  so  rudely  checked,  and 
not  only  to  call  back  his  strength,  but  to  guide  it  and  direct  it  into  its 
appointed  channels. 

Lloyd  returned  toward  the  glass-inclosed  veranda  to  find  Ben 
nett  just  arousing  from  his  nap.  She  drew  the  shawls  closer  about 
him  and  rearranged  the  pillows  under  his  head,  and  then  sat  down 
on  the  steps  near  at  hand. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Captain  Duane,"  she  began.  "Where  is  he 
now?" 

Bennett  yawned  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  face,  rubbing  the 
sleep  from  his  eyes. 

"What  time  is  it?  I  must  haye  slept  over  an  hour.  Duane? 
Why,  you  saw  what  the  paper  said.  I  presume  he  is  at  Tasiusak." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  succeed?  Do  you  think  he  will  reach 
the  ^Pole  ?  Adler  thinks  he  won't." 

"Oh,  perhaps,  if  he  has  luck  and  an  open  season." 


A  Man's  Woman  433 

"But  tell  me,  why  does  he  take  so  many  men?  Isn't  that  con 
trary  to  the  custom  ?  I  know  a  great  deal  about  Arctic  work.  While 
you  were  away  I  read  every  book  I  could  get  upon  the  subject.  The 
best  work  has  been  done  with  small  expeditions.  If  you  should  go 
again — when  you  go  again — will  you  take  so  many?  I  saw  you 
quoted  somewhere  as  being  in  favor  of  only  six  or  eight  men." 

"Ten  should  be  the  limit — but  some  one  else  will  make  the  at 
tempt  now.  I'm  out  of  it.  I  tried  and  failed." 

"Failed — you !  The  idea  of  you  ever  failing,  of  you  ever  giving 
up !  Of  course  it  was  all  very  well  to  joke  this  morning  about  giv 
ing  up  your  career;  but  I  know  you  will  be  up  and  away  again 
only  too  soon.  I  am  trying  to  school  myself  to  expect  that." 

"Lloyd,  I  tell  you  that  I  am  out  of  it.  I  don't  believe  the  Pole  ever 
can  be  reached,  and  I  don't  much  care  whether  it  is  reached  or  not." 

Suddenly  Lloyd  turned  to  him,  the  unwonted  light  flashing  in 
her  eyes.  "/  do,  though,"  she  cried  vehemently.  "It  can  be  done, 
and  we — America — ought  to  do  it." 

Bennett  stared  at  her,  startled  by  her  outburst. 

"This  English  expedition,"  Lloyd  continued,  the  color  flushing 
in  her  cheeks,  "this  Duane-Parsons  expedition,  they  will  have  the 
start  of  everybody  next  year.  Nearly  every  attempt  that  is  made 
now  establishes  a  new  record  for  a  high  latitude.  One  nation  after 
another  is  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  almost  every  year,  and  each 
expedition  is  profiting  by  the  experiences  and  observations  made 
by  the  one  that  preceded  it.  Some  day,  and  not  very  long  now, 
some  nation  is  going  to  succeed  and  plant  its  flag  there  at  last. 
Why  should  it  not  be  us?  Why  shouldn't  our  flag  be  first  at  the 
Pole?  We  who  have  had  so  many  heroes,  such  great  sailors,  such 
splendid  leaders,  such  explorers — our  Stanleys,  our  Farraguts,  our 
Decaturs,  our  De  Longs,  our  Lockwoods — how  we  would  stand 
ashamed  before  the  world  if  some  other  nation  should  succeed 
where  we  have  all  but  succeeded — Norway,  or  France,  or  Russia, 
or  England — profiting  by  our  experiences,  following  where  we  have 
made  the  way!" 

"That  is  very  fine,"  admitted  Bennett.  "It  would  be  a  great 
honor,  the  greatest  perhaps;  and  once — I — well,  I  had  my  ambi 
tions,  too.  But  it's  all  different  now.  Something  in  me  died  when 
—Dick — when — I — oh,  let  Duane  try.  Let  him  do  his  best.  I 
know  it  can't  be  done,  and  if  he  should  win,  I  would  be  the  first  to 
wire  congratulations.  Lloyd,  I  don't  care.  I've  lost  interest.  I 
suppose  it  is  my  punishment.  I'm  out  of  the  race.  I'm  a  back 
number.  I'm  down." 

S — III — NORRIS 


434  A  Man's  Woman 

Lloyd  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't— I  can't  believe  you." 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me  go,"  demanded  Bennett,  "after  this 
last  experience?  Do  you  urge  me  to  it?" 

Lloyd  turned  her  head  away,  leaning  it  against  one  of  the 
veranda  pillars.  A  sudden  dimness  swam  in  her  eyes,  the  choking 
ache  she  knew  so  well  came  to  her  throat.  Ah,  life  was  hard  for 
her.  The  very  greatness  of  her  nature  drove  from  her  the  hap 
piness  so  constantly  attained  by  little  minds,  by  commonplace  souls. 
When  was  it  to  end,  this  continual  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  duty, 
this  eternal  abnegation,  this  yielding  up  of  herself,  her  dearest,  most 
cherished  wishes  to  the  demands  of  duty  and  the  great  world? 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want,"  she  said  faintly.  "It  don't  seem 
as  if  one  could  be  happy — very  long." 

All  at  once  she  moved  close  to  him  and  laid  her  cheek  upon 
the  arm  of  his  chair  and  clasped  his  hand  in  both  her  own,  murmur 
ing  :  "But  I  have  you  now,  I  have  you  now,  no  matter  what  is  com 
ing  to  us." 

A  sense  of  weakness  overcame  her.  What  did  she  care  that 
Bennett  should  fulfil  his  destiny,  should  round  out  his  career,  should 
continue  to  be  the  Great  Man  ?  It  was  he,  Bennett,  that  she  loved — 
not  his  greatness,  not  his  career.  Let  it  all  go,  let  ambition  die,  let 
others  less  worthy  succeed  in  the  mighty  task.  What  were  fame 
and  honor  and  glory  and  the  sense  of  a  divinely  appointed  duty 
done  at  last  to  the  clasp  of  his  hand  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  ? 

In  November  of  that  year  Lloyd  and  Bennett  were  married. 
Two  guests  only  assisted  at  the  ceremony.  These  were  Campbell 
and  his  little  daughter  Hattie. 


X 

THE  months  passed ;  Christmas  came  and  went.  Until  then  the 
winter  had  been  unusually  mild,  but  January  set  in  with  a  suc 
cession  of  vicious  cold  snaps  and  great  blustering  winds  out  of  the 
northeast.  Lloyd  and  Bennett  had  elected  to  remain  quietly  in  their 
new  home  at  Medford.  They  had  no  desire  to  travel,  and  Ben 
nett's  forthcoming  book  demande'd  his  attention.  Adler  stayed  on 
about  the  house.  He  and  the  dog  Kamiska  were  companions  in 
separable.  At  long  intervals  visitors  presented  themselves — Dr. 
Street,  or  Pitts,  or  certain  friends  of  Bennett's.  But  the  great  rush 
of  interviewers,  editors,  and  projectors  of  marvelous  schemes  that 


A  Man's  Woman  435 

had  crowded  Bennett's  anterooms  during  the  spring  and  early  sum 
mer  was  conspicuously  dwindling.  The  press  ceased  to  speak  of 
him ;  even  his  mail  had  fallen  away.  Now,  whenever  the  journals 
of  the  day  devoted  space  to  Arctic  exploration,  it  was  invariably  in 
reference  to  the  English  expedition  wintering  on  the  Greenland 
coast.  That  world  that  had  clamored  so  loudly  upon  Bennett's 
return,  while,  perhaps,  not  yet  forgetting  him,  was  already  ignoring 
him,  was  looking  in  other  directions.  Another  man  was  in  the 
public  eye. 

But  in  every  sense  these  two — Lloyd  and  Bennett — were  out  of 
the  world.  They  had  freed  themselves  from  the  current  of  affairs. 
They  stood  aside  while  the  great  tide  went  careering  past  swift  and 
turbulent,  and  one  of  them  at  least  lacked  even  the  interest  to  look 
on  and  watch  its  progress. 

For  a  time  Lloyd  was  supremely  happy.  Their  life  was  un 
broken,  uneventful.  The  calm,  monotonous  days  of  undisturbed 
happiness  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  were  come  at  last.  Thus 
it  was  always  to  be.  Isolated  and  apart,  she  could  shut  her  ears  to 
the  thunder  of  the  world's  great  tide  that  somewhere,  off  beyond 
the  hills  in  the  direction  of  the  city,  went  swirling  through  its  chan 
nels.  Hardly  an  hour  went  by  that  she  and  Bennett  were  not 
together.  Lloyd  had  transferred  her  stable  to  her  new  home; 
Lewis  was  added  to  the  number  of  their  servants,  and  until  Ben 
nett's  old-time  vigor  completely  returned  to  him  she  drove  out  almost 
daily  with  her  husband,  covering  the  country  for  miles  around. 

Much  of  their  time,  however,  they  spent  in  Bennett's  study. 
This  was  a  great  apartment  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  scantily,  almost 
meanly,  furnished.  Papers  littered  the  floor;  bundles  of  manu 
scripts,  lists,  charts,  and  observations,  the  worn  and  battered  tin 
box  of  records,  note-books,  journals,  tables  of  logarithms  were 
piled  upon  Bennett's  desk.  A  bookcase  crammed  with  volumes  of 
reference,  statistical  pamphlets,  and  the  like  stood  between  the  win 
dows,  while  one  of  the  walls  was  nearly  entirely  occupied  by  a  vast 
map  of  the  Arctic  circle,  upon  which  the  course  of  the  "Freja,"  her 
'drift  in  the  pack,  and  the  route  of  the  expedition's  southerly  march 
were  accurately  plotted. 

The  room  was  bare  of  ornament;  the  desk  and  a  couple  of 
chairs  were  its  only  furniture.  Pictures  there  were  none.  Their 
places  were  taken  by  photographs  and  a  great  blue  print  of  the 
shipbuilder's  plans  and  specifications  of  the  "Freja." 

The  photographs  were  some  of  those  that  Dennison  had  made 
of  the  expedition — the  "Freja"  nipped  in  the  ice,  a  group  of  the 


436  A  Man's  Woman 

officers  and  crew  upon  the  forward  deck,  the  coast  of  Wrangel 
Island,  Cape  Kammeni,  peculiar  ice  formations,  views  of  the  pack 
under  different  conditions  and  temperatures,  pressure  ridges  and 
scenes  of  the  expedition's  daily  life  in  the  Arctic,  bear-hunts,  the 
manufacture  of  sledges,  dog-teams,  Bennett  taking  soundings  and 
reading  the  wind-gauge,  and  one,  the  last  view  of  the  "Freja," 
taken  just  as  the  ship — her  ice-sheathed  dripping  bows  heaved  high 
in  the  air,  the  flag  still  at  the  peak — sank  from  sight. 

However,  on  the  wall  over  the  blue-print  plans  of  the  "Freja," 
one  of  the  boat's  flags,  that  had  been  used  by  the  expedition  through 
out  all  the  time  of  its  stay  in  the  ice,  hung  suspended — a  faded, 
tattered  square  of  stars  and  bars. 

As  the  new  life  settled  quietly  and  evenly  to  its  grooves  a  rou 
tine  began  to  develop.  About  an  hour  after  breakfast  Lloyd  and 
Bennett  shut  themselves  in  Bennett's  "workroom,"  as  he  called  it, 
Lloyd  taking  her  place  at  the  desk.  She  had  become  his  amanuen 
sis,  had  insisted  upon  writing  to  his  dictation. 

"Look  at  that  manuscript,"  she  had  exclaimed  one  day,  turning 
the  sheets  that  Bennett  had  written ;  "literally  the  very  worst  hand 
writing  I  have  ever  seen.  What  do  you  suppose  a  printer  would 
make  out  of  your  'thes'  and  Bands'?  It's  hieroglyphics,  you  know," 
she  informed  him  gravely,  nodding  her  head  at  him. 

It  was  quite  true.  Bennett  wrote  with  amazing  rapidity  and 
with  ragged,  vigorous  strokes  of  the  pen,  not  unfrequently  driving 
the  point  through  the  paper  itself ;  his  script  was  pothooks,  clumsy, 
,  slanting  in  all  directions,  all  but  illegible.  In  the  end  Lloyd  had 
almost  pushed  him  from  his  place  at  the  desk,  taking  the  pen  from 
between  his  fingers,  exclaiming: 

"Get  up !  Give  me  that  chair — and  that  pen.  Handwriting  like 
that  is  nothing  else  but  a  sin." 

Bennett  allowed  her  to  bully  him,  protesting  merely  for  the 
enjoyment  of  squabbling  with  her. 

"Come,  I  like  this.  What  are  you  doing  in  my  workroom,  any 
how,  Mrs.  Bennett?  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  your  housework." 

"Don't  talk,"  she  answered.  "Here  are  your  notes  and  journal. 
Now  tell  me  what  to  write." 

In  the  end  matters  adjusted  themselves.  Daily  Lloyd  took  her 
place  at  the  desk,  pen  in  hand,  the  sleeve  of  her  right  arm  rolled 
back  to  the  elbow  (a  habit  of  hers  whenever  writing,  and  whicFf 
Bennett  found  to  be  charming  beyond  words),  her  pen  traveling 
steadily  from  line  to  line.  He  on  his  part  pkced  the  floor,  a  cigar 
between  his  teeth,  his  notes  and  note-books  in  his  hand,  dictating 


A  Man's  Woman  437 

comments  of  his  own,  or  quoting  from  the  pages,  stained,  frayed, 
and  crumpled,  written  by  the  light  of  the  auroras,  the  midnight  suns, 
or  the  unsteady  flickering  of  train-oil  lanterns  and  blubber-lamps. 

What  long,  delicious  hours  they  spent  thus,  as  the  winter  drew 
on,  in  the  absolute  quiet  of  that  country  house,  ignored  and  lost  in 
the  brown,  bare  fields  and  leafless  orchards  of  the  open  country !  No 
one  troubled  them.  No  one  came  near  them.  They  asked  nothing 
better  than  that  the  world  wherein  they  once  had  lived,  whose  hurt 
ling  activity  and  febrile  unrest  they  both  had  known  so  well,  should 
leave  them  alone. 

Only  one  jarring  note,  and  that  none  too  resonant,  broke  the  long 
harmony  of  Lloyd's  happiness  during  these  days.  Bennett  was 
deaf  to  it;  but  for  Lloyd  it  vibrated  continuously  and,  as  time 
passed,  with  increasing  insistence  and  distinctness.  But  for  one 
person  in  the  world  Lloyd  could  have  told  herself  that  her  life  was 
without  a  single  element  of  discontent. 

This  was  Adler.  It  was  not  that  his  presence  about  the  house 
was  a  reproach  to  Bennett's  wife,  for  the  man  was  scrupulously  un 
obtrusive.  He  had  the  instinctive  delicacy  that  one  sometimes  dis 
covers  in  simple,  undeveloped  natures — seafaring  folk  especially — 
and  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  his  former  chief,  he 
had  withdrawn  himself  more  than  ever  from  notice  since  the  time 
of  Bennett's  marriage.  He  rarely  even  waited  on  the  table  these 
days,  for  Lloyd  and  Bennett  often  chose  to  breakfast  and  dine  quite 
to  themselves. 

But,  for  all  that,  Lloyd  saw  Adler  from  time  to  time,  Kamiska 
invariably  at  his  heels.  She  came  upon  him  polishing  the  brasses 
upon  the  door  of  the  house,  or  binding  strips  of  burlaps  and  sacking 
about  the  rose-bushes  in  the  garden,  or  returning  from  the  village 
post-office  with  the  mail,  invariably  wearing  the  same  woolen  cap, 
the  old  pea-jacket,  and  the  jersey  with  the  name  "Freja"  upon  the 
breast.  He  rarely  spoke  to  her  unless  she  first  addressed  him,  and 
then  always  with  a  precise  salute,  bringing  his  heels  sharply  to 
gether,  standing  stiffly  at  attention. 

But  the  man,  though  all  unwittingly,  radiated  gloom.  Lloyd 
readily  saw  that  Adler  was  laboring  under  a  certain  cloud  of  dis 
appointment  and  deferred  hope.  Naturally  she  understood  the 
cause.  Lloyd  was  too  large-hearted  to  feel  any  irritation  at  the 
sight  of  Adler.  But  she  could  not  regard  him  with  indifference.  To 
her  mind  he  stood  for  all  that  Bennett  had  given  up,  for  the  great 
career  that  had  stopped  half-way,  for  the  work  half  done,  the  task 
only  half  completed.  In  a  way  was  not  Adler  now  superior  to  Ben- 


438  A  Man's  Woman 

nett?  His  one  thought  and  aim  and  hope  was  to  "try  again."  His 
ambition  was  yet  alive  and  alight ;  the  soldier  was  willing  where  the 
chief  lost  heart.  Never  again  had  Adler  addressed  himself  to 
Lloyd  on  the  subject  of  Bennett's  inactivity.  Now  he  seemed  to 
understand — to  realize  that  once  married — and  to  Lloyd — he  must 
no  longer  expect  Bennett  to  continue  the  work.  All  this  Lloyd  inter 
preted  from  Adler's  attitude,  and  again  and  again  told  herself  that 
she  could  read  the  man's  thoughts  aright.  She  even  fancied  she 
caught  a  mute  appeal  in  his  eyes  upon  those  rare  occasions  when 
they  met,  as  though  he  looked  to  her  as  the  only  hope,  the  only 
means  to  wake  Bennett  from  his  lethargy.  She  imagined  that  she 
heard  him  say: 

"Ain't  you  got  any  influence  with  him,  Miss?  Won't  you  talk 
good  talk  to  him  ?  Don't  let  him  chuck.  Make  him  be  a  man,  and 
not  a  professor.  Nothing  else  in  the  world  don't  figure.  It's  his 
work.  God  A'mighty  cut  him  out  for  that,  and  he's  got  to  do  it." 
His  work,  his  work,  God  made  him  for  that ;  appointed  the  task, 
made  the  man,  and  now  she  came  between.  God,  Man,  and  the 
Work — the  three  vast  elements  of  an  entire  system,  the  whole  uni 
verse  epitomized  in  the  tremendous  trinity.  Again  and  again  such 
thoughts  assailed  her.  Duty  once  more  stirred  and  awoke.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  some  great  engine  ordained  of  Heaven  to  run 
its  'appointed  course  had  come  to  a  standstill,  was  rusting  to  its 
ruin,  and  that  she  alone  of  all  the  world  had  power  to  grasp  its 
lever,  to  send  it  on  its  way;  whither,  she  did  not  know;  why,  she 
could  not  tell.  She  knew  only  that  it  was  right  that  she  should  act. 
By  degrees  her  resolution  hardened.  Bennett  must  try  again.  But 
at  first  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  heart  would  break,  and  more 
than  once  she  wavered. 

As  Bennett  continued  to  dictate  to  her  the  story  of  the  expe 
dition  he  arrived  at  the  account  of  the  march  toward  Kolyuchin 
Bay,  and,  finally,  at  the  description  of  the  last  week,  with  its  ter 
rors,  its  sufferings,  its  starvation,  its  despair,  when,  one  by  one,  the 
men  died  in  their  sleeping-bags,  to  be  buried  under  slabs  of  ice. 
When  this  point  in  the  narrative  was  reached  Bennett  inserted  no 
comment  of  his  own ;  but  while  Lloyd  wrote,  read  simply  and  with 
grim  directness  from  the  entries  in  his  journal  precisely  as  they 
had  been  written. 

Lloyd  had  known  in  a  vague  way  that  the  expedition  had  suf 
fered  abominably,  but  hitherto  Bennett  had  never  consented  to  tell 
her  the  story  in  detail.  "It  was  a  hard  week,"  he  informed  her,  "a 
rather  bad  grind." 


A  Man's  Woman  439 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  was  to  know  just  what  had  hap 
pened,  just  what  he  had  endured. 

As  usual,  Bennett  paced  the  floor  from  wall  to  wall,  his  cigar 
in  his  teeth,  his  tattered,  grimy  ice- journal  in  his  hand.  At  the  desk 
Lloyd's  round,  bare  arm,  the  sleeve  turned  up  to  the  elbow,  moved 
evenly  back  and  forth  as  she  wrote.  In  the  intervals  of  Bennett's 
dictation  the  scratching  of  Lloyd's  pen  made  itself  heard.  A  little 
fire  snapped  and  crackled  on  the  hearth.  The  morning's  sun  came 
flooding  in  at  the  windows. 

".  .  .  Gale  of  wind  from  the  northeast,"  prompted  Lloyd, 
raising  her  head  from  her  writing.  Bennett  continued : 

"Impossible  to  march  against  it  in  our  weakened  condition." 

He  paused  for  her  to  complete  the  sentence. 

".     .     .     Must  camp  here  till  it  abates.     .     .     ." 

"Have  you  got  that?"    Lloyd  nodded. 

"...  Made  soup  of  the  last  of  the  dog-meat  this  afternoon.  .  .  .  Our  last 
pemmican  gone." 

There  was  a  pause ;  then  Bennett  resumed : 

"December  ist,  Wednesday — Everybody  getting  weaker.  .  .  .  Metz 
breaking  down.  .  .  .  Sent  Adler  to  the  shore  to  gather  shrimps;  .  .  . 
we  had  about  a  mouthful  apiece  at  noon;  .  .  .  supper,  a  spoonful  of 
glycerine  and  hot  water." 

Lloyd  put  her  hand  to  her  temple,  smoothing  back  her  hair,  her 
face  turned  away.  As  before,  in  the  park,  on  that  warm  and  glow 
ing  summer  afternoon,  a  swift,  clear  vision  of  the  Ice  was  vouch 
safed  to  her.  She  saw  the  coast  of  Kolyuchin  Bay — primordial 
desolation,  whirling  dust-like  snow,  the  unleashed  wind  yelling  like 
a  sabbath  of  witches,  leaping  and  somersaulting  from  rock  to  rock, 
folly-stricken  and  insensate  in  its  hideous  dance  of  death.  Bennett  con 
tinued.  His  voice  insensibly  lowered  itself ;  a  certain  gravity  of  man 
ner  came  upon  him.  At  times  he  looked  at  the  written  pages  in  his 
hand  with  vague,  unseeing  eyes.  No  doubt  he,  too,  was  remembering. 

He  resumed: 

"December  2d,  Thursday — Metz  died  during  the  night.  .  .  .  Hansen 
dying.  Still  blowing  a  gale  from  the  northeast.  .  .  .  A  hard  night." 

Lloyd's  pen  moved  slower  and  slower  as  she  wrote.  The  lines 
of  the  manuscript  began  to  blur  and  swim  before  her  eyes. 

And  it  was  to  this  that  she  must  send  him.     To  this  inhuman, 

>  horrible  region ;  to  this  life  of  prolonged  suffering,   where  death 

came   slowly  through   days  of   starvation,   exhaustion,   and   agony 

hourly  renewed.     He  must  dare  it  all  again.     She  must  force  him 


440  A  Man's  Woman 

to  it.  Her  decision  had  been  taken;  her  duty  was  plain  to  her. 
Now  it  was  irrevocable. 

".  .  .  Hansen  died  during  early  morning.  .  .  .  Dennison  breaking 
down.  .  .  ." 

"...  December  5th— Sunday— Dennison  found  dead  this  morning  be 
tween  Adler  and  myself.  .  .  ." 

The  vision  became  plainer,  more  distinct.  She  fancied  she  saw 
the  interior  of  the  tent  and  the  dwindling  number  of  the  "Freja's" 
survivors  moving  about  on  their  hands  and  knees  in  its  gloomy  half- 
light.  Their  hair  and  beards  were  long,  their  faces  black  with  dirt, 
monstrously  distended  and  fat  with  the  bloated  irony  of  starvation. 
They  were  no  longer  men.  After  that  unspeakable  stress  of  mis 
ery  nothing  but  the  animal  remained. 

".  .  .  Too  weak  to  bury  Jiim,  or  even  carry  him  out  of  the  tent.  .  .  . 
He  must  lie  where  he  is.  ...  Last  spoonful  of  glycerine  and  hot  water. 
.  .  .  Divine  service  at  5:30  P.M.  .  .  ." 

Once  more  Lloyd  faltered  in  her  writing ;  her  hand  moved  slower. 
Shut  her  teeth  though  she  might,  the  sobs  would  come ;  swiftly  the 
tears  brimmed  her  eyes,  but  she  tried  to  wink  them  back,  lest  Bennett 
should  see.  Heroically  she  wrote  to  the  end  of  the  sentence.  A 
pause  followed. 

"Yes — 'divine  services  at' — I — I — " 

The  pen  dropped  from  her  fingers  and  she  sank  down  upon  her 
desk,  her  head  bowed  in  the  hollow  of  her  bare  arm,  shaken  from 
head  to  foot  with  the  violence  of  the  crudest  grief  she  had  ever 
known.  Bennett  threw  his  journal  from  him,  and  came  to  her,  tak 
ing  her  in  his  arms,  putting  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Why,  Lloyd,  what  is  it — why,  old  chap,  what  the  devil!  I 
was  a  beast  to  read  that  to  you.  It  wasn't  really  as  bad  as  that,  you 
know,  and  besides,  look  here,  look  at  me.  It  all  happened  three 
years  ago.  It's  all  over  with  now." 

Without  raising  her  head,  and  clinging  to  him  all  the  closer, 
Lloyd  answered  brokenly : 

"No,  no;  it's  not  all  over.     It  never,  never  will  be." 

"Pshaw,  nonsense!"  Bennett  blustered,  "you  must  not  take  it 
to  heart  like  this.  We're  going  to  forget  all  about  it  now.  Here, 
damn  the  book,  anyhow!  We've  had  enough  of  it  to-day.  Put 
your  hat  on.  We'll  have  the  ponies  out  and  drive  somewhere.  And 
to-night  we'll  go  into  town  and  see  a  show  at  a  theatre." 

"No,"  protested  Lloyd,  pushing  back  from  him,  drying  her  eyes. 
"You  shall  not  think  I'm  so  weak.  We  will  go  on  with  what  we 
have  to  do — with  our  work.  I'm  all  right  now." 


A  Man's  Woman  441 

Bennett  marched  her  out  of  the  room  without  more  ado,  and, 
following  her,  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  them.  "We'll 
not  write  another  word  of  that  stuff  to-day.  Get  your  hat  and 
things.  I'm  going  out  to  tell  Lewis  to  put  the  ponies  in." 

But  that  day  marked  a  beginning.  From  that  time  on  Lloyd 
never  faltered,  and  if  there  were  moments  when  the  iron  bit  deeper 
than  usual  into  her  heart,  Bennett  never  knew  her  pain.  By  degrees 
a  course  of  action  planned  itself  for  her.  A  direct  appeal  to  Ben 
nett  she  believed  would  not  only  be  useless,  but  beyond  even  her 
heroic  courage.  She  must  influence  him  indirectly.  The  initiative 
must  appear  to  come  from  him.  It  must  seem  to  him  that  he,  of  his 
own  accord,  roused  his  dormant  resolution.  It  was  a  situation  that 
called  for  all  her  feminine  tact,  delicacy,  and  instinctive  diplomacy. 

The  round  of  their  daily  life  was  renewed,  but  now  there  was  a 
change.  It  was  subtle,  illusive,  a  vague,  indefinite  trouble  in  the 
air.  Lloyd  had  addressed  herself  to  her  task,  and  from  day  to  day, 
from  hour  to  hour,  she  held  to  it,  unseen,  unnoticed.  Now  it  was 
a  remark  dropped  as  if  by  chance  in  the  course  of  conversation; 
now  an  extract  cut  from  a  newspaper  or  scientific  journal  and  left 
where  Bennett  would  find  it;  now  merely  a  look  in  her  eyes,  an  in 
stant's  significant  glance  when  her  gaze  met  her  husband's,  or  a 
moment's  enthusiasm  over  the  news  of  some  discovery.  Insensibly 
and  with  infinite  caution  she  directed  his  attention  to  the  world  he 
believed  he  had  abjured ;  she  called  into  being  his  interest  in  his 
own  field  of  action,  reading  to  him  by  the  hour  from  the  writings 
of  other  men,  or  advancing  and  championing  theories  which  she 
knew  to  be  false  and  ridiculous,  but  which  she  goaded  him  to  refute. 

One  morning  she  even  feigned  an  exclamation  of  unbounded 
astonishment  as  she  opened  the  newspaper  while  the  two  were  at 
breakfast,  pretending  to  read  from  imaginary  headlines. 

"Ward,  listen!  'The  Pole  at  Last.  A  Norwegian  Expedition 
Solves  the  Mystery  of  the  Arctic.  The  Goal  Reached  After— 

"What!"  cried  Bennett  sharply,  his  frown  lowering. 

"  ' — After  Centuries  of  Failure."  Lloyd  put  down  the  paper 
with  a  note  of  laughter. 

"Suppose  you  should  read  it  some  day." 

Bennett  subsided  with  a  good-humored  growl. 

"You  did  scare  me  for  a  moment.     I  thought — I  thought— 

"I  did  scare  you ?  Why  were  you  scared ?  What  did  you  think?" 
She  leaned  toward  him  eagerly. 

"I  thought — well — oh — that  some  other  chap,  Duane,  perhaps— 

"He's  still  at  Tasiusak.    But  he  will  succeed,  I  do  believe.    I've 


442  A  Man's  Woman 

read  a  great  deal  about  him.     He  has  energy  and  determination. 
If  anybody  succeeds  it  will  be  Duane." 

"He?     Never!" 

"Somebody,  then?" 

"You  said  once  that  if  your  husband  couldn't  nobody  could." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  answered  cheerfully.  "But  you — you 
are  out  of  it  now." 

"Huh !"  he  grumbled.  "It's  not  because  I  don't  think  I  could  if 
I  wanted  to." 

"No,  you  could  not,  Ward.    Nobody  can." 

"But  you  just  said  you  thought  somebody  would  some  day." 

"Did  I?    Oh,  suppose  you  really  should  one  of  these  days!" 

"And  suppose  I  never  came  back?" 

"Nonsense!  Of  course  you  would  come  back.  They  all  do 
nowadays." 

"De  Long  didn't." 

"But  you  are  not  De  Long." 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  day  Lloyd  noted  with  a  sinking  heart 
that  Bennett  was  unusually  thoughtful  and  preoccupied.  She  said 
nothing,  and  was  studious  to  avoid  breaking  in  upon  his  reflec 
tions,  whatever  they  might  be.  She  kept  out  of  his  way  as  much  as 
possible,  but  left  upon  his  desk,  as  if  by  accident,  a  copy  of  a  pam 
phlet  issued  by  a  geographical  society,  open  at  an  article  upon  the 
future  of  exploration  within  the  Arctic  Circle.  At  supper  that  night 
Bennett  suddenly  broke  in  upon  a  rather  prolonged  silence  with : 

"It's  all  in  the  ship.  Build  a  ship  strong  enough  to  withstand 
lateral  pressure  of  the  ice  and  the  whole  thing  becomes  easy." 

Lloyd  yawned  and  stirred  her  tea  indifferently  as  she  answered: 

"Yes,  but  you  know  that  can't  be  done." 

Bennett  frowned  thoughtfully,  drumming  upon  the  table. 

"I'll  wager  /  could  build  one." 

"But  it's  not  the  ship  alone.  It's  the  man.  Whom  would  you 
get  to  command  your  ship  ?" 

Bennett  stared.     "Why,  I  would  take  her,  of  course." 

"You?  You  have  had  your  share — your  chance.  Now  you  can 
afford  to  stay  home  and  finish  your  book — and — well,  you  might 
deliver  lectures." 

"What  rot,  Lloyd !   Can  you  see  me  posing  on  a  lecture  platform  ?" 

"I  would  rather  see  you  doing  that  than  trying  to  beat  Duane, 
than  getting  into  the  ice  again.  I  would  rather  see  you  doing  that 
than  to  know  that  you  were  away  up  there — in  the  north,  in  the  ice, 
at  your  work  again,  fighting  your  way  toward  the  Pole,  leading  your 


A  Man's  Woman 


443 


men  and  overcoming  every  obstacle  that  stood  in  your  way,  never 
giving  up,  never  losing  heart,  trying  to  do  the  great,  splendid,  im 
possible  thing ;  risking  your  life  to  reach  merely  a  point  on  a  chart. 
Yes,  I  would  rather  see  you  on  a  lecture  platform  than  on  the  deck 
of  an  Arctic  steamship.  You  know  that,  Ward. 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her. 

"I  would  like  to  know  what  you  mean/'  he  muttered. 

The  winter  went  by,  then  the  spring,  and  by  June  all  the  country 
around  Medford  was  royal  with  summer.  During  the  last  days  of 
May,  Bennett  practically  had  completed  the  body  of  his  book  and 
now  occupied  himself  with  its  appendix.  There  was  little  variation  in 
their  daily  life.  Adler  became  more  and  more  of  a  fixture  about 
the  place.  In  the  first  week  of  June,  Lloyd  and  Bennett  had  a 
visitor,  a  guest;  this  was  Hattie  Campbell.  Mr.  Campbell  was 
away  upon  a  business  trip,  and  Lloyd  had  arranged  to  have  the 
little  girl  spend  the  fortnight  of  his  absence  with  her  at  Medford. 

The  summer  was  delightful.  A  vast,  pervading  warmth  lay 
close  over  all  the  world.  The  trees,  the  orchards,  the  rose-bushes  in 
the  garden  about  the  house,  all  the  teeming  life  of  trees  and  plants 
hung  motionless  and  poised  in  the  still,  tideless  ocean  of  the  air.  It 
was  very  quiet;  all  distant  noises,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  per 
sistent  calling  of  robins  and  jays,  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the 
road,  the  rumble  of  the  trains  passing  fhe  station  down  in  the  town, 
seemed  muffled  and  subdued.  The  long,  calm  summer  days  suc 
ceeded  one  another  in  an  unbroken,  glimmering  procession.  From 
dawn  to  twilight  one  heard  the  faint,  innumerable  murmurs  of  the 
summer,  the  dull  bourdon  of  bees  in  the  rose  and  lilac  bushes,  the 
prolonged,  strident  buzzing  of  blue-bottle  flies,  the  harsh,  dry  scrape 
of  grasshoppers,  the  stridulating  of  an  occasional  cricket.  In  the 
twilight  and  all  through  the  night  itself  the  frogs  shrilled  from 
the  hedgerows  and  in  the  damp,  north  corners  of  the  fields,  while 
from  the  direction  of  the  hills  toward  the  east  the  whippoorwills 
called  incessantly.  During  the  day  the  air  was  full  of  odors,  dis 
tilled  as  it  were  by  the  heat  of  high  noon — the  sweet  smell  of 
ripening  apples,  the  fragrance  of  warm  sap  and  leaves  and  growing 
grass,  the  smell  of  cows  from  the  nearby  pastures,  the  pungent,  am- 
moniacal  suggestion  of  the  stable  back  of  the  house,  and  the  odor 
of  scorching  paint  blistering  on  the  southern  walls. 

July  was  very  hot.  No  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  vast,  invisible 
sea  of  air,  quivering  and  oily  under  the  vertical  sun.  The  land 
scape  was  deserted  of  animated  life ;  there  was  little  stirring  abroad. 
In  the  house  one  kept  within  the  cool,  darkened  rooms  with  mat- 


A  Man's  Woman 

ting  on  the  floors  and  comfortable,  deep  wicker  chairs,  the  windows 
wide  to  the  least  stirring  of  the  breeze.  Adler  dozed  in  his  canvas  , 
hammock  slung  between  a  hitching-post  and  a  crab-apple  tree  in 
the  shade  behind  the  stable.  Kamiska  sprawled  at  full  length  under 
neath  the  water-trough,  her  tongue  lolling,  panting  incessantly.  An 
immeasurable  Sunday  stillness  seemed  to  hang  suspended  in  the  at 
mosphere—a  drowsy,  numbing  hush.  There  was  no  thought  of  the 
passing  of  time.  The  day  of  the  week  was  always  a  matter  of 
conjecture.  It  seemed  as  though  this  life  of  heat  and  quiet  and 
unbroken  silence  was  to  last  forever. 

Then  suddenly  there  was  an  alerte.  One  morning,  a  day  or 
so  after  Hattie  Campbell  had  returned  to  the  city,  just  as  Lloyd  and 
Bennett  were  finishing  their  breakfast  in  the  now  heavily  awninged 
glass-room,  they  were  surprised  to  see  Adler  running  down  the  road 
toward  the  house,  Kamiska  racing  on  ahead,  barking  excitedly. 
Adler  had  gone  into  the  town  for  the  mail  and  morning's  paper. 
This  latter  he  held  wide  open  in  hishand,  and  as  soon  as  he  caught 
sight  of  Lloyd  and  Bennett  waved  it  about  him,  shouting  as  he  ran. 

Lloyd's  heart  began  to  beat.  There  was  only  one  thing  that 
could  excite  Adler  to  this  degree — the  English  expedition ;  Adler 
had  news  of  it;  it  was  in  the  paper.  Duane  had  succeeded;  had 
been  working  steadily  northward  during  all  these  past  months,  while 
Bennett — 

"Stuck  in  the  ice!  stuck  in  the  ice!"  shouted  Adler  as  he  swung 
wide  the  front  gate  and  came  hastening  toward  the  veranda  across 
the  lawn.  "What  did  we  say !  Hooray !  He's  stuck.  I  knew  it ; 
any  galoot  might  'a'  known  it.  Duane's  stuck  tighter'n  a  wedge  off 
Bache  Island,  in  Kane  Basin.  Here  it  all  is;  read  it  for  yourself." 

Bennett  took  the  paper  from  him  and  read  aloud  to  the  effect 
that  the  "Curlew,"  accompanied  by  her  collier,  which  was  to  follow 
her  to  the  southerly  limit  of  Kane  Basin,  had  attempted  the  passage 
of  Smith  Sound  late  in  June.  But  the  season,  as  had  been  feared, 
was  late.  The  enormous  quantities  of  ice  reported  by  the  whalers 
the  previous  year  had  not  debouched  from  the  narrow  channel,  and 
on  the  last  day  of  June  the  "Curlew"  had  found  her  further  progress 
effectually  blocked.  In  essaying. to  force  her  way  into  a  lead  the  ice 
had  closed  in  behind  her,  and,  while  not  as  yet  nipped,  the  vessel 
was  immobilized.  There  was  no  hope  that  she  would  advance  north 
ward  until  the  following  summer.  The  collier,  which  had  not  been 
beset,  had  returned  to  Tasiusak  with  the  news  of  the  failure. 

"What  a  galoot!  What  a — a  professor!"  exclaimed  Adler  with 
a  vast  disdain.  "Him  loafing  at  Tasiusak  waiting  for  open  water, 


A  Man's  Woman  445 

when  the  "Alert"  wintered  in  eighty-two-twenty-four!     Well,  he's 
shelved  for  another  year,  anyhow."' 

Later  on,  after  breakfast,  Lloyd  and  Bennett  shut  themselves 
in  Bennett's  workroom,  and  for  upward  of  three  hours  addressed 
themselves  to  the  unfinished  work  of  the  previous  day,  compiling 
from  Bennett's  notes  a  table  of  temperatures  of  the  sea-water  taken 
at  different  soundings.  Alternating  with  the  scratching  of  Lloyd's 
!pen,  Bennett's  voice  continued  monotonously: 

"August  i5th--2,ooo  meters  or  1,093  fathoms— minus  .66  degrees  centi 
grade  or  30.81  Fahrenheit." 

"Fahrenheit,"  repeated  Lloyd  as  she  wrote  the  last  word. 
"August  i6th— i, 600  meters  or  874  fathoms " 

"Eight  hundred  and  seventy-four  fathoms,"  repeated  Lloyd  as 
Bennett  paused  abstractedly. 

"Or     .      .      .     he's  in  a  bad  way,  you  know." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"It's  a  bad  bit  of  navigation  along  there.  The  "Proteus"  was 
nipped  and  crushed  to  kindling  in  about  that  same  latitude  .  .  . 
h'm"  .  .  .  Bennett  tugged  at  his  mustache.  Then,  suddenly, 
as  if  coming  to  himself:  "Well — these  temperatures  now.  Where 
were  we?  'Eight  hundred  and  seventy-four  fathoms,  minus  forty- 
six  hundredths  degrees  centigrade/  " 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  just  as  they  were  finishing  this 
table,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Adler,  and  as  Bennett 
opened  the  door  he  saluted  and  handed  him  three  calling-cards. 
Bennett  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  Lloyd  turned  about 
from  the  desk,  her  pen  poised  in  the  air  over  the  half-written  sheet. 

"They  might  have  let  me  know  they  were  coming,"  she  heard 
Bennett  mutter.  "What  do  they  want?" 

"Guess  they  came  on  that  noon  train,  sir,"  hazarded  Adler. 
"They  didn't  say  what  they  wanted,  just  inquired  for  you." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Lloyd,  coming  forward. 

Bennett  read  off  the  names  on  the  cards. 

"Well,  it's  Tremlidge— that's  the  Tremlidge  of  the  Times';  he's 
the  editor  and  proprietor — and  Hamilton  Garlock — has  something 
to  do  with  that  new  geographical  society — president,  I  believe — 
and  this  one" — he  handed  her  the  third  card — "is  a  friend  of  yours, 
Craig  V.  Campbell  of  the  Hercules  Wrought  Steel  Company." 

Lloyd  stared.  "What  can  they  want?"  she  murmured,  looking 
up  to  him  from  the  card  in  some  perplexity.  Bennett  shook  his  head. 

"Tell  them  to  come  up  here,"  he  said  to  Adler. 


446  A  Man's  Woman 

Lloyd  hastily  drew  down  her  sleeve  over  her  bare  arm. 

"Why  up  here,  Ward?"  she  inquired  abruptly. 

"Should  we  have  seen  them  downstairs?"  he  demanded  with  a 
frown.  "I  suppose  so ;  I  didn't  think.  Don't  go/'  he  added,  putting 
a  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  started  for  the  door.  "You  might  as  well 
hear  what  they  have  to  say." 

The  visitors  entered,  Adler  holding  open  the  door — Campbell, 
well  groomed,  clean-shaven,  and  gloved  even  in  that  warm  weather ; 
Tremlidge,  the  editor  of  one  of  the  greater  daily  papers  of  the  city 
(and  of  the  country  for  the  matter  of  that),  who  wore  a  monocle 
and  carried  a  straw  hat  under  his  arm;  and  Garlock,  the  vice-presi 
dent  of  an  international  geographical  society,  an  old  man,  with 
beautiful  white  hair  curling  about  his  ears,  a  great  bow  of  black 
silk  knotted  about  his  old-fashioned  collar.  The  group  presented,  all 
unconsciously,  three  great  and  highly  developed  phases  of  nine 
teenth-century  intelligence — science,  manufactures,  and  journalism — 
each  man  of  them  a  master  in  his  calling. 

When  the  introductions  and  preliminaries  were  over,  Bennett 
took  up  his  position  again  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  leaning  against 
the  mantle,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Lloyd  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the 
desk,  resting  her  elbow  on  the  edge.  Hanging  against  the  wall 
behind  her  was  the  vast  chart  of  the  Arctic  Circle.  Tremlidge,  the 
editor,  sat  on  the  bamboo  sofa  near  the  end  of  the  room,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  gently  tapping  the  floor  with  the  ferrule  of  his  slim 
walking-stick;  Garlock,  the  scientist,  had  dropped  into  the  depths 
of  a  huge  leather  chair  and  leaned  back  in  it  comfortably,  his  legs 
crossed,  one  boot  swinging  gently ;  Campbell  stood  behind  this  chair, 
drumming  on  the  back  occasionally  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand, 
speaking  to  Bennett  over  Garlock's  shoulder,  and  from  time  to  time 
turning  to  Tremlidge  for  corroboration  and  support  of  what  he  was 
saying. 

Abruptly  the  conference  began. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bennett,  you  got  our  wire  ?"  Campbell  said  by  way 
of  commencement. 

Bennett  shook  his  head. 

No,"  he  returned  in  some  surprise;  "no,  I  got  no  wire." 
"That's   strange,"   said   Tremlidge.     "I   wired   three   days   ago 
asking  for  this  interview.    The  address  was  right,  I  think.    I  wired : 
'Care  of  Dr.  Pitts/     Isn't  that  right?" 

"That  probably  accounts  for  it,"  answered  Bennett.  "This  is 
Pitts's  house,  but  he  does  not  live  here  now.  Your  despatch,  no 
doubt,  went  to  his  office  in  the  city,  and  was  forwarded  to  him. 


A  Man's  Woman  447 

He's  away  just  now,  traveling,  I  believe.  But — you're  here.  That's 
the  essential." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Garlock,  looking  to  Campbell.  "We're  here, 
and  we  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Campbell,  who  had  evidently  been  chosen  spokesman,  cleared  his 
throat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bennett,  I  don't  know  just  how  to  begin,  so  suppose 
I  begin  at  the  beginning.  Tremlidge  and  I  belong  to  the  same 
club  in  the  city,  and  in  some  way  or  other  we  have  managed  to  see  a 
good  deal  of  each  other  during  the  last  half-dozen  years.  We  find 
that  we  have  a  good  deal  in  common.  I  don't  think  his  editorial 
columns  are  for  sale,  and  he  doesn't  believe  there  are  blow-holes  in 
my  steel  plates.  I  really  do  believe  we  have  certain  convictions. 
Tremlidge  seems  to  have  an  idea  that  journalism  can  be  clean  and 
yet  enterprising,  and  tries  to  run  his  sheet  accordingly,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  I  would  not  make  a  bid  for  bridge  girders  below  what  it 
would  cost  to  manufacture  them  honestly.  Tremlidge  and  I  differ 
in  politics;  we  hold  conflicting  views  as  to  municipal  government; 
we  attend  different  churches;  we  are  at  variance  in  the  matter  of 
public  education,  of  the  tariff,  of  emigration,  and,  heaven  save  the 
mark !  of  capital  and  labor,  but  we  tell  ourselves  that  we  are  public- 
spirited  and  are  a  little  proud  that  God  allowed  us  to  be  born  in  the 
United  States ;  also  it  appears  that  we  have  more  money  than  Henry 
George  believes  to  be  right.  Now,"  continued  Mr.  Campbell, 
straightening  himself  as  though  he  were  about  to  touch  upon  the  real 
subject  of  his  talk,  "when  the  news  of  your  return,  Mr.  Bennett, 
was  received,  it  was,  as  of  course  you  understand,  the  one  topic  of 
conversation  in  the  streets,  the  clubs,  the  newspaper  offices — every 
where.  Tremlidge  and  I  met  at  our  club  at  luncheon  the  next  week, 
and  I  remember  perfectly  well  how  long  and  how  very  earnestly  we 
talked  of  your  work  and  of  Arctic  exploration  in  general. 

"We  found  out  all  of  a  sudden  that  here  at  last  was  a  subject  we 
were  agreed  upon,  a  subject  in  which  we  took  an  extraordinary 
mutual  interest.  We  discovered  that  we  had  read  almost  every  ex 
plorer's  book  from  Sir  John  Franklin  down.  We  knew  all  about  the 
different  theories  and  plans  of  reaching  the  Pole.  We  knew  how 
and  why  they  had  all  failed ;  but,  for  all  that,  we  were  both  of  the 
opinion"  (Campbell  leaned  forward,  speaking  with  considerable 
energy)  "that  it  can  be  done,  and  that  America  ought  to  do  it.  That 
would  be  something  better  than  even  a  World's  Fair. 

"We  give  out  a  good  deal  of  money,  Tremlidge  and  I,  every  year 
to  public  works  and  one  thing  or  another.  We  buy  pictures  by 


448  A  Man's  Woman 

American  artists — pictures  that  we  don't  want ;  we  found  a  scholar 
ship  now  and  then ;  we  contribute  money  to  build  groups  of  statuary 
in  the  park;  we  give  checks  to  the  finance  committees  of  libraries 
and  museums  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but,  for  the  lives  of  us,  we  can 
feel  only  a  mild  interest  in  the  pictures  and  statues,  and  museums 
and  colleges,  though  we  go  on  buying  the  one  and  supporting  the 
other,  because  we  think  that  somehow  It  is  right  for  us  to  do  it.  I'm 
afraid  we  are  men  more  of  action  than  of  art,  literature,  and  the  like. 
Tremlidge  is,  I  know.  He  wants  facts,  accomplished  results.  When 
he  gives  out  his  money  he  wants  to  see  the  concrete,  substantial  re- 

'  turn — and  I'm  not  sure  that  I  am  not  of  the  same  way  of  thinking. 
"Well,  with  this  and  with  that,  and  after  talking  it  all  over  a 

!  dozen  times — twenty  times — we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  what  we 
would  most  like  to  aid  financially  would  be  a  successful  attempt  by  an 
American-built  ship,  manned  by  American  seamen,  led  by  an  Ameri 
can  commander,  to  reach  the  North  Pole.  We  came  to  be  very  en 
thusiastic  about  our  idea;  but  we  want  it  American  from  start  to 
finish.  We  will  start  the  subscription,  and  want  to  head  the  list  with 
our  checks ;  but  we  want  every  bolt  in  that  ship  forged  in  American 
foundries  from  metal  dug  out  of  American  soil.  We  want  every 
plank  in  her  hull  shaped  from  American  trees,  every  sail  of  her 
woven  by  American  looms,  every  man  of  her  born  of  American 
parents,  and  we  want  it  this  way  because  we  believe  in  American 
manufactures,  because  we  believe  in  American  shipbuilding,  because 
we  believe  in  American  sailmakers,  and  because  we  believe  in  the 
intelligence  and  pluck  and  endurance  and  courage  of  the  American 
sailor. 

"Well,"  Campbell  continued,  changing  his  position  and  speaking 
in  a  quieter  voice,  "we  did  not  say  much  to  anybody,  and,  in  fact, 
we  never  really  planned  any  expedition  at  all.  We  merely  talked 
about  its  practical  nature  and  the  desirability  of  having  it  dis 
tinctively  American.  This  was  all  last  summer.  What  we  wanted 
to  do  was  to  make  the  scheme  a  popular  one.  It  would  not  be  hard 
to  raise  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  from  among  a  dozen  or  so  men 
whom  we  both  know,  and  we  found  that  we  could  count  upon  the 
financial  support  of  Mr.  Garlock's  society.  That  was  all  very  well, 
but  we  wanted  the  people  to  back  this  enterprise.  We  would  rather 
get  a  thousand  five-dollar  subscriptions  than  five  of  a  thousand  dol 
lars  each.  When  our  ship  went  out  we  wanted  her  commander  to 
feel,  not  that  there  were  merely  a  few  millionaires,  who  had  paid  for 
his  equipment  and  his  vessel,  behind  him  but  that  he  had  seventy 
millions  of  people,  a  whole  nation,  at  his  back. 


A  Man's  Woman 

"So  Tremlidge  went  to  work  and  telegraphed  instructions  to  the 
Washington  correspondents  of  his  paper  to  sound  quietly  the  tem 
per  of  as  many  Congressmen  as  possible  in  the  matter  of  making 
an  appropriation  toward  such  an  expedition.  It  was  not  so  much 
the  money  we  wanted  as  the  sanction  of  the  United  States.  Any 
thing  that  has  to  do  with  the  Navy  is  popular  just  at  present.  We 
had  got  a  Congressman  to  introduce  and  father  an  appropriation 
bill,  and  we  could  count  upon  the  support  of  enough  members  of 
both  houses  to  put  it  through.  We  wanted  Congress  to  appro 
priate  twenty  thousand  dollars.  We  hoped  to  raise  another  ten 
thousand  dollars  by  popular  subscription.  /Mr.  Garlock  could 
assure  us  two  thousand  dollars;  Tremlidge  would  contribute 
twenty  thousand  dollars  in  the  name  of  the  Times/  and  I  pledged 
myself  to  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  promised  to  build  the  ship's 
engines  and  fittings.  We  kept  our  intentions  to  ourselves,  be 
fore  the  'Times'  printed  it.  But  we  continued  to  lay  our  wires 
at  Washington.  Everything  was  going  as  smooth  as  oil;  we 
seemed  sure  of  the  success  of  our  appropriation  bill,  and  it  was 
even  to  be  introduced  next  week,  when  the  news  came  of  the  col 
lapse  of  the  English  expedition — the  Duane-Parsons  affair. 

"You  would  have  expected  precisely  an  opposite  effect,  but  it 
has  knocked  our  chances  with  Congress  into  a  cocked  hat.  Our 
member,  who  was  to  father  the  bill,  declared  to  us  that  so  sure  as  it 
was  brought  up  now  it  would  be  killed  in  committee.  I  went  to 
Washington  at  once;  it  was  this,  and  not,  as  you  supposed,  private 
business  that  has  taken  me  away.  I  saw  our  member  and  Trem- 
lidge's  head  correspondent.  It  was  absolutely  no  use.  These  men 
who  have  their  finger  upon  the  Congressional  pulse  were  all  of  the 
same  opinion.  It  would  be  useless  to  try  to  put  through  our  bill 
at  present.  Our  member  said  'Wait';  all  Tremlidge's  men  said 
"Wait — wait  for  another  year,  until  this  English  expedition  and  its 
failure  are  forgotten,  and  then  try  again/  But  we  don't  want  to 
wait.  Suppose  Duane  is  blocked  for  the  present.  He  has  a  tre 
mendous  start.  He's  on  the  ground.  By  next  summer  the  chances 
are  the  ice  will  have  so  broken  up  as  to  permit  him  to  push  ahead, 
and  by  the  time  our  bill  gets  through  and  our  ship  built  and 
launched  he  may  be — heaven  knows  where,  right  up  to  the  Pole, 
perhaps.  No,  we  can't  afford  to  give  England  such  long  odds. 
We  want  to  lay  the  keel  of  our  ship  as  soon  as  we  can — next  week, 
if  possible ;  we've  got  the  balance  of  the  summer  and  all  the  winter 
to  prepare  in,  and  a  year  from  this  month  we  want  our  American 
expedition  to  be  inside  the  Polar  Circle,  to  be  up  with  Duane,  and 


450  A  Man's  Woman 

at  least  to  break  even  with  England.  If  we  can  do  this  we're  not 
afraid  of  the  result,  provided,"  continued  Mr.  Campbell,  "provided 
you,  Mr.  Bennett,  are  in  command.  If  you  consent  to  make  the 
attempt,  only  one  point  remains  to  be  settled.  Congress  has  failed 
us.  We  will  give  up  the  idea  of  an  appropriation.  Now,  then,  and 
this  is  particularly  what  we  want  to  consult  you  about,  how  are 
we  going  to  raise  the  twenty  thousand  dollars?" 

Lloyd  rose  to  her  feet. 

"You  may  draw  on  me  for  the  amount,"  she  said  quietly. 

Garlock  uncrossed  his  legs  and  sat  up  abruptly  in  the  deep- 
seated  chair.  Tremlidge  screwed  his  monocle  into  his  eye  and 
stared,  while  Campbell  turned  about  sharply  at  the  sound  of  Lloyd's 
voice  with  a  murmur  of  astonishment.  Bennett  alone  did  not  move. 
As  before,  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  mantelpiece,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  head  and  his  huge  shoulders  a  little  bent.  Only 
from  under  his  thick,  knotted  frown  he  shot  a  swift  glance  toward 
his  wife.  Lloyd  paid  no  attention  to  the  others.  After  that  one 
quiet  movement  that  had  brought  her  to  her  feet  she  remained 
motionless  and  erect,  her  hands  hanging  straight  at  her  sides,  the 
color  slowly  mounting  to  her  cheeks.  She  met  Bennett's  glance  and 
held  it  steadily,  calmly,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  She  said  no 
word,  but  all  her  love  for  him,  all  her  hopes  of  him,  all  the  fine, 
strong  resolve  that,  come  what  would,  his  career  should  not  be 
broken,  his  ambition  should  not  faint  through  any  weakness  of  hers, 
all  her  eager  sympathy  for  his  great  work,  all  her  strong,  womanly 
encouragement  for  him  to  accomplish  his  destiny  spoke  to  him,  and 
called  to  him  in  that  long,  earnest  look  of  her  dull-blue  eyes.  Now 
she  was  no  longer  weak;  now  she  could  face  the  dreary  conse 
quences  that,  for  her,  must  follow  the  rousing  of  his  dormant 
energy ;  now  was  no  longer  the  time  for  indirect  appeal ;  the  screen 
was  down  between  them.  More  eloquent  than  any  spoken  words 
was  the  calm,  steady  gaze  in  which  she  held  his  own. 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  husband  and  wife  stood  looking 
deep  into  each  other's  eyes.  And  then,  as  a  certain  slow  kindling 
took  place  in  his  look,  Lloyd  saw  that  at  last  Bennett  understood. 

After  that  the  conference  broke  up  rapidly.  Campbell,  as  the 
head  and  spokesman  of  the  committee,  noted  the  long,  significant 
glance  that  had  passed  between  Bennett  and  Lloyd,  and,  perhaps, 
vaguely  divined  that  he  had  touched  upon  a  matter  of  a  particularly 
delicate  and  intimate  nature.  Something  was  in  the  air,  something 
was  passing  between  husband  and  wife  in  which  the  outside  world 
had  no  concern— something  not  meant  for  him  to  see.  He  brought 


A  Man's  Woman  451 

the  interview  to  an  end  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  begged  of  Ben 
nett  to  consider  this  talk  as  a  mere  preliminary — a  breaking  of  the 
ground.  He  would  give  Bennett  time  to  think  it  over.  Speaking 
for  himself  and  the  others,  he  was  deeply  impressed  with  that  gen 
erous  offer  to  meet  the  unexpected  deficiency,  but  it  had  been  made 
upon  the  spur  of  the  moment.  No  doubt  Mr.  Bennett  and  his  wife 
would  wish  to  talk  it  over  between  themselves,  to  consider  the  whole 
matter.  The  committee  temporarily  had  its  headquarters  in  his 
(Campbell's)  offices.  He  left  Bennett  the  address.  He  would  await 
his  decision  and  answer  there. 

When  the  conference  ended  Bennett  accompanied  the  members 
of  the  committee  downstairs  and  to  the  front  door  of  the  house. 
The  three  had,  with  thanks  and  excuses,  declined,  all  invitations  to 
dine  at  Medford  with  Bennett  and  his  wife.  They  could  conven 
iently  catch  the  next  train  back  to  the  city ;  Campbell  and  Tremlidge 
were  in  a  hurry  to  return  to  their  respective  businesses. 

The  front  gate  closed.  Bennett  was  left  alone.  He  shut  the 
front  door  of  the  house,  and  for  an  instant  stood  leaning  against  it, 
his  small  eyes  twinkling  under  his  frown,  his  glance  straying  aim 
lessly  about  amid  the  familiar  objects  of  the  hallway  and  adjoining 
rooms.  He  was  thoughtful,  perturbed,  tugging  slowly  at  the  ends 
of  his  mustache.  Slowly  he  ascended  the  stairs,  gaining  the  landing 
on  the  second  floor  and  going  on  toward  the  half-open  door  of  the 
''workroom"  he  had  just  quitted.  Lloyd  was  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
He  wanted  her,  his  wife,  and  that  at  once.  He  was  conscious  that 
a  great  thing  had  suddenly  transpired,  that  all  the  calm  and  infi 
nitely  happy  life  of  the  last  year  was  ruthlessly  broken  up;  but  in 
his  mind  there  was  nothing  more  definite,  nothing  stronger  than  the 
thought  of  his  wife  and  the  desire  for  her  companionship  and  advice. 

He  came  into  the  "workroom,"  closing  the  door  behind  him 
with  his  heel,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  Lloyd  was  still  there, 
standing  opposite  him  as  he  entered.  She  hardly  seemed  to  have 
moved  while  he  had  been  gone.  They  did  not  immediately  speak. 
Once  more  their  eyes  met.  Then  at  length: 

"Well,  Lloyd?" 

"Well,  my  husband?" 

Bennett  was  about  to  answer — what  he  hardly  knew ;  but  at  that 
moment  there  was  a  diversion. 

The  old  boat's  flag,  the  tattered  little  square  of  faded  stars  and 
bars  that  had  been  used  to  mark  the  line  of  many  a  weary  march, 
had  been  hanging,  as  usual,  over  the  blue-print  plans  of  the  "Freja" 
on  the  wall  opposite  the  window.  Inadequately  fixed  in  its  place, 


A^2  A  Man's  Woman 

the  jar  of  the  closing  door  as  Bennett  shut  it  behind  him  dislodged 
it,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  close  beside  him. 

He  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  and,  holding  it  in  his  hand,  turned 
toward  the  spot  whence  it  had  fallen.  He  cast  a  glance  at  the  wall 
above  the  plans  of  the  "Freja,"  about  to  replace  it,  willing  for  the 
instant  to  defer  the  momentous  words  he  felt  must  soon  be  spoken, 
willing  to  put  off  the  inevitable  a  few  seconds  longer. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  muttered,  looking  from  the  flag  to  the  empty 
wall  spaces  about  the  room;  "I  don't  know  just  where  to  put  this. 
Do  you—" 

"Don't  you  know?"  interrupted  Lloyd  suddenly,  her  blue  eyes 
all  alight. 

"No,"  said  Bennett;  "I—" 

Lloyd  caught  the  flag  from  his  hands  and,  with  one  great  sweep 
of  her  arm,  drove  its  steel  shod  shaft  full  into  the  centre  of  the 
great  chart  of  the  polar  region,  into  the  innermost  concentric  circle 
where  the  Pole  was  marked. 

"Put  that  flag  there !"  she  cried. 


XI 

THAT  particular  day  in  the  last  week  in  April  was  sombre  and 
somewhat  chilly,  but  there  was  little  wind.  The  water  of  the  harbor 
lay  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  tightly  stretched  gray  silk.  Overhead  the 
sea-fog  drifted  gradually  landward,  descending,  as  it  drifted,  till 
the  outlines  of  the  city  grew  blurred  and  indistinct,  resolving  to  a 
dim,  vast  mass,  rugged  with  high-shouldered  office  buildings  and 
bulging,  balloon-like  domes,  confused  and  mysterious  under  the 
cloak  of  the  fog.  In  the  nearer  foreground,  along  the  lines  of  the 
wharves  and  docks,  a  wilderness  of  masts  and  spars  of  a  tone  just 
darker  than  the  gray  of  the  mist  stood  away  from  the  blur  of  the 
background  with  the  distinctness  and  delicacy  of  frost-work, 

But  amid  all  this  grayness  of  sky  and  water  and  fog  one  distin 
guished  certain  black  and  shifting  masses.  They  outlined  every 
wharf,  they  banked  every  dock,  every  quay.  Every  small  and  in- 
Consequent  jetty  had  its  fringe  of  black.  Even  the  roofs  of  the 
buildings  along  the  water-front  were  crested  with  the  same  dull- 
colored  mass. 

It  was  the  People,  the  crowd,  rank  upon  rank,  close-packed,  ex 
pectant,  thronging  there  upon  the  city's  edge,  swelling  in  size  with 
the  lapse  of  every  minute,  vast,  conglomerate,  restless,  and  throw- 


A  Man's  Woman 

ing  off  into  the  stillness  of  the  quiet  gray  air  a  prolonged,  indefinite 
murmur,  a  monotonous  minor  note. 

The  surface  of  the  bay  was  dotted  over  with  all  manner  of  craft 
black  with  people.  Rowboats,  perilously  overcrowded,  were  every 
where.  Ferryboats  and  excursion  steamers,  chartered  for  that 
day,  heeled  over  almost  to  the  water's  edge  with  the  unsteady 
weight  of  their  passengers.  Tugboats  passed  up  and  down  sim- 
ilarly  crowded  and  displaying  the  flags  of  various  journals  and 
news  organizations — the  "News,"  the  "Press,"  the  "Times,"  and 
the  Associated  Press.  Private  yachts,  trim  and  very  graceful  and 
gleaming  with  brass  and  varnish,  slipped  by  with  scarcely  a  ripple 
to  mark  their  progress,  while  full  in  the  centre  of  the  bay,  gigantic, 
solid,  formidable,  her  grim,  silent  guns  thrusting  their  snouts  from 
her  turrets,  a  great,  white  battleship  rode  motionless  to  her  anchor. 

An  hour  passed ;  noon  came.  At  long  intervals  a  faint  seaward 
breeze  compressed  the  fog,  and  high,  sad-colored  clouds  and  a  fine 
and  penetrating  rain  came  drizzling  down.  The  crowds  along  the 
wharves  grew  denser  and  blacker.  The  numbers  of  yachts,  boats, 
and  steamers  increased ;  even  the  yards  and  masts  of  the  merchant 
ships  were  dotted  over  with  watchers. 

Then,  at  length,  from  far  up  the  bay  there  came  a  faint,  a 
barely  perceptible,  droning  sound,  the  sound  of  distant  shouting. 
Instantly  the  crowds  were  alert,  and  a  quick,  surging  movement  rip 
pled  from  end  to  end  of  the  throng  along  the  water-front.  Its  sub 
dued  murmur  rose  in  pitch  upon  the  second.  Like  a  flock  of  agitated 
gulls,  the  boats  in  the  harbor  stirred  nimbly  from  place  to  place ;  a 
belated  newspaper  tug  tore  by,  headed  for  the  upper  bay,  smoking 
fiercely,  the  water  boiling  from  her  bows.  From  the  battleship 
came  the  tap  of  a  drum.  The  excursion  steamers  and  chartered 
ferryboats  moved  to  points  of  vantage  and  took  position,  occa 
sionally  feeling  the  water  with  their  paddles. 

The  distant,  droning  sound  drew  gradually  nearer,  swelling  in 
volume,  and  by  degrees  splitting  into  innumerable  component  parts. 
One  began  to  distinguish  the  various  notes  that  contributed  to  its 
volume — a  sharp,  quick  volley  of  inarticulate  shouts  or  a  cadenced 
cheer  or  a  hoarse  salvo  of  steam  whistles.  Bells  began  to  ring  in 
different  quarters  of  the  city. 

Then  all  at  once  the  advancing  wave  of  sound  swept  down  like 
the  rush  of  a  great  storm.  A  roar  as  of  the  unchained  wind  leaped 
upward  from  those  banked  and  crowding  masses.  It  swelled  louder 
and  louder,  deafening,  inarticulate.  A  vast  bellow  of  exultation 
split  the  gray,  low-hanging  heavens.  Erect  plumes  of  steam  shot 


454  A  Man's  Woman 

upward  from  the  ferry  and  excursion  boats,  but  the  noise  of  their 
whistles  was  lost  and  drowned  in  the  reverberation  of  that  mighty 
and  prolonged  clamor.  But  suddenly  the  indeterminate  thunder 
was  pierced  and  dominated  by  a  sharp  and  deep-toned  report,  and  a 
jet  of  white  smoke  shot  out  from  the  flanks  of  the  battleship.  Her 
guns  had  spoken.  Instantly  and  from  another  quarter  of  her  hull  came 
another  jet  of  white  smoke,  stabbed  through  with  its  thin,  yellow  flash, 
and  another  abrupt  clap  of  thunder  shook  the  windows  of  the  city. 

The  boats  that  all  the  morning  had  been  moving  toward  the 
upper  bay  were  returning.  They  came  slowly,  a  veritable  fleet, 
steaming  down  the  bay,  headed  for  the  open  sea,  beyond  the  en 
trance  of  the  harbor,  each  crowded  and  careening  to  the  very  gun 
wales,  each  whistling  with  might  and  main. 

And  in  their  midst — the  storm-centre  round  which  this  tempest 
of  acclamation  surged,  the  object  on  which  so  many  eyes  were 
focused  the  hope  of  an  entire  nation — one  ship. 

She  was  small  and  seemingly  pitifully  inadequate  for  the  great 
adventure  on  which  she  was  bound;  her  lines  were  short  and  un 
graceful.  From  her  clumsy  iron-shod  bow  to  her  high,  round 
stern,  from  her  bulging  sides  to  the  summit  of  her  short,  powerful 
masts  there  was  scant  beauty  in  her.  She  was  broad,  blunt,  evi 
dently  slow  in  her  movements,  and  in  the  smooth  waters  of  the  bay 
seemed  out  of  her  element.  But,  for  all  that,  she  imparted  an  im 
pression  of  compactness,  the  compactness  of  things  dwarfed  and 
stunted.  Vast,  indeed,  would  be  the  force  that  would  crush  those 
bulging  flanks,  so  cunningly  built,  moreover,  that  the  ship  must  slip 
and  rise  to  any  too  great  lateral  pressure.  Far  above  her  waist 
rose  her  smokestack.  Overhead  upon  the  mainmast  was  affixed  the 
crow's  nest.  Whaleboats  and  cutters  swung  from  her  davits,  while 
all  her  decks  were  cumbered  with  barrels,  with  crates,  with  boxes, 
and  strangely  shaped  bales  and  cases. 

She  drew  nearer,  continuing  that  slow,  proud  progress  down  the 
bay,  honored  as  no  visiting  sovereign  had  ever  been.  The  great 
white  man-of-war  dressed  ship  as  she  passed,  and  the  ensign  at 
her  fighting-top  dipped  and  rose  again.  At  once  there  was  a  move 
ment  aboard  the  little  outbound  ship;  one  of  her  crew  ran  aft 
and  hauled  sharply  at  the  halyards,  and  then  at  her  peak  there  was 
broken  out,  not  the  brilliant  tri-colored  banner,  gay  and  brave  and 
clean,  but  a  little  length  of  bunting,  tattered  and  soiled,  a  faded 
breadth  of  stars  and  bars,  a  veritable  battle-flag,  eloquent  of  strenu 
ous  endeavor,  of  fighting  without  quarter,  and  of  hardship  borne 
without  flinching  and  without  complaining. 


A  Man's  Woman  455 

The  ship  with  her  crowding  escorts  held  onward.  By  degrees 
the  city  was  passed ;  the  bay  narrowed  oceanward  little  by  little. 
4  The  throng  of  people,  the  boom  of  cannon,  and  the  noise  of  snouting 
dropped  astern.  One  by  one  the  boats  of  the  escorting  squadron 
halted,  drew  off,  and,  turning  with  a  parting  blast  of  their  whistles, 
headed  back  to  the  city.  Only  the  larger,  heavier  steamers  and  the 
seagoing  tugs  still  kept  on  their  way.  On  either  shore  of  the  bay 
the  houses  began  to  dwindle,  giving  place  to  open  fields,  brown  and 
sear  under  the  scudding  sea-fog,  for  now  a  wind  was  building  up 
from  out  the  east,  and  the  surface  of  the  bay  had  begun  to  ruffle. 

Half  a  mile  further  on  the  slow,  huge,  ground-swells  began  to 
come  in ;  a  lighthouse  was  passed.  Full  in  view,  on  ahead,  stretched 
the  open,  empty  waste  of  ocean.  Another  steamer  turned  back, 
then  another,  then  another,  then  the  last  of  the  newspaper  tugs. 
The  fleet,  reduced  now  to  half  a  dozen  craft,  plowed  on  through  and 
over  the  ground-swells,  the  ship  they  were  escorting  leading  the 
way,  her  ragged  little  ensign  straining  stiff  in  the  ocean  wind.  At 
the  entrance  of  the  bay,  where  the  inclosing  shores  drew  together 
and  trailed  off  to  surf-beaten  sand-spits,  three  more  of  the  escort 
halted,  and,  unwilling  to  face  the  tumbling  expanse  of  the  ocean, 
bleak  and  gray,  turned  homeward.  Then  just  beyond  the  bar  two 
more  of  the  remaining  boats  fell  off  and  headed  cityward ;  a  third 
immediately  did  likewise.  The  outbound  ship  was  left  with  only  one 
companion. 

But  that  one,  a  sturdy  little  seagoing  tug,  held  close,  close  to  the 
flank  of  the  departing  vessel,  keeping  even  pace  with  her  and  lying 
alongside  as  nearly  as  she  dared,  for  the  fog  had  begun  to  thicken, 
and  distant  objects  were  shut  from  sight  by  occasional  drifting 
patches. 

On  board  the  tug  there  was  but  one  passenger — a  woman.  She 
stood  upon  the  forward  deck,  holding  to  a  stanchion  with  one  strong, 
i  white  hand,  the  strands  of  her  bronze-red  hair  whipping  across  her 
face,  the  salt  spray  damp  upon  her  cheeks.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
long,  brown  ulster,  its  cape  flying  from  her  shoulders  as  the  wind 
lifted  it.  Small  as  was  the  outgoing  ship,  the  tug  was  still  smaller, 
•  and  its  single  passenger  had  to  raise  her  eyes  above  her  to  see  the 
figure  of  a  man  upon  the  bridge  of  the  ship,  a  tall,  heavily  built 
figure,  buttoned  from  heel  to  chin  in  a  greatcoat,  who  stood  there 
gripping  the  rail  of  the  bridge  with  one  hand,  and  from  time  to  time 
giving  an  order  to  his  sailing-master,  who  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
bridge  before  the  compass  and  electric  indicator. 

Between  the  man  upon  the  bridge  and  the  woman  on  the  for- 


45 6  A  Man's  Woman 

ward  deck  of  the  tug  there  was  from  time  to  time  a  little  conversa 
tion.  They  called  to  one  another  above  the  throbbing  of  the  en 
gines  and  the  wash  of  the  sea  alongside,  and  in  the  sound  of  their 
voices  there  was  a  note  of  attempted  cheerfulness.  Practically  they 
were  alone,  with  the  exception  of  the  sailing-master  on  the  bridge. 
The  crew  of  the  ship  were  nowhere  in  sight.  On  the  tug  no  one 
but  the  woman  was  to  be  seen.  All  around  them  stretched  the  fog- 
ridden  sea. 

Then  at  last,  in  answer  to  a  question  from  the  man  on  the  bridge, 
the  woman  said: 

"Yes— I  think  I  had  better." 

An  order  was  given.  The  tug's  bell  rang  in  Her  engine-room, 
and  the  engine  slowed  and  stopped.  For  some  time  the  tug  con 
tinued  her  headway,  ranging  alongside  the  ship  as  before.  Then 
she  began  to  fall  behind,  at  first  slowly,  then  with  increasing  swift 
ness.  The  outbound  ship  continued  on  her  way,  and  between  the  two 
the  water  widened  and  widened.  But  the  fog  was  thick ;  in  another 
moment  the  two  would  be  shut  out  from  each  other's  sight.  The 
moment  of  separation  was  come. 

Then  Lloyd,  standing  alone  on  that  heaving  deck,  drew  herself 
up  to  her  full  height,  her  head  a  little  back,  her  blue  eyes  all  alight,  a 
smile  upon  her  lips.  She  spoke  no  word.  She  made  no  gesture,  but 
stood  there,  the  smile  yet  upon  her  lips,  erect,  firm,  motionless; 
looking  steadily,  calmly,  proudly  into  Bennett's  eyes  as  his  ship 
carried  him  further  and  further  away. 

Suddenly  the  fog  shut  down.  The  two  vessels  were  shut  from 
each  other's  sight. 

As  Bennett  stood  leaning  upon  the  rail  of  the  bridge  behind  him, 
his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his  greatcoat,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
visible  strip  of  water  just  ahead  of  his  ship's  prow,  the  sailing- 
master,  Adler,  approached  and  saluted. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "we're  just  clear  of  the  last  buoy; 
what's  our  course  now,  sir?" 

Bennett  glanced  at  the  chart  that  Adler  held  and  then  at  the 
compass  affixed  to  the  rail  of  the  bridge  close  at  hand.  Quietly  he 
answered : 

"Due  north." 


THE   END 


*   ^7      T  -7 


>  '< 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BDDD^flObEM 


